Poems Published in Los Angeles Review

Jersey Devil

"Struggling to survive with twelve children, [Mother Leeds]
became distraught when she realized that yet another addition
to her overburdened family was on the way. Cursing her
hopelessness, she cried out in disgust, 'I am tired of children!
Let it be a devil!'"

- James F. McCloy & Robert Miller, Jr., The Jersey Devil


Whenever the ruddy dusk swallows the sandwash, the barrens,
children fed on devil stories tramp the woods' footpaths.
They shoulder branches whittled to spears and prowl
the rock shore, wade into bog shoals and back--legs stained
from the creek ore and much. From rickety forts,
they map and raid the scrubland. They palm knives,
scour the treeline and timber shanties, ramble home
toting their marsh-blackened boots. The children peak
through curtain gaps during summer downpours,
play lookout from the covered porch--this is how they keep
the family mutt from slaughter. They wrestle the stream-
snagged lure with the thought: it's him. The wild thing
that snakes along the forked river as the brave

plunge from the dock ledge into rusty water.
The shadow that buries its hoof trail under pine needles
skirting abandoned deer stands. The savage who loses
its wing-scrape and forked tail in the windchurned oak boughs.
And when night paws at the window, the light-empty bedroom
fakes the creature's black-jack lair, dreams flash
the mud-padded fur coarse as bark, wild fangs like a jaw of briars.
Mothers and fathers wake at the sound of their own
sharp gasps, bawl and whine the Jersey Devil hunts for them.
The children light house lamps at the same black hour,
sweet-talk and shoo away the wicked. They stare beyond
the glass-pane and drapes, the yard fence like a band of teeth,
and wonder if they are already tucked in the beast's belly.




From These Split Ends
-for Jessica Keough


After I proposed marriage, we decided
to start cutting each others' hair.

First time, I was drunk on vodka tonics
and used poultry shears, but she trusted me

enough to score off a few inches.
We did it standing in the apartment's

old cast iron tub, naked, my hands trembling.
Her curls made it difficult. The blades

didn't trim right, and I strained to snip each lock.
While inspecting the workmanship,

I dropped the shear, nicked her ankle.
I forget how exactly she reacted, but it was calm--

something of a soft glance down.
As I palmed the clutch of her strands,

worried over the neat horizon of her cut,
her manner suggested to me, there is time to get better.

Split ends in the wastebasket. Her right arm
over her breasts. I brushed off a lone hair

perched on the crook of her arm
and offered my hand to ferry her out of the bath.