Public Republic

Sheri L. Wright

Photo: Sheri L. Wright

I follow the moon through Spanish moss and cypress,
the song of nocturnals rippling across heat
that stews summer long past its season.
The eyes of shades –
those of the lost and discarded –
peer from underneath centuries and secrets
stained black with death,
trail after me like undergrowth tangled in the living.

This creek winds like a serpent and
will swallow any who mis-step the boundaries of good sense.
Even owls do not whisper their omens
where the churling of reptiles stirs
the edge of lantern light.

But, I continue,
charmed with a pocket full of graveyard dirt,
desperation salved over bruises
that bloomed like nightshade –
a husband’s gift for no occasion.

Sheri L. Wright
114 South Bayly Av. #1
Louisville,. KY 40206
kasperfriend@yahoo.com