Volume 31, No. 2

Black 
is the absence of color 
to which the eye adjusts. 
Black magnifies the face of 
the beloved. 

The quick exit— 
Space, windows, safety. 
Cozy couches and easy 
Chairs versus the hard 

The ranger stoops to toss a stick away 
and points to a narrow hole dug in the mud. 
“Snakes,” she says, “are plentiful this year; 
there’s some bubonic plague in rodents here.” 

—Or on summer evenings as the sky 
Draws down its light, prodding the question why 

They sit in cast-off wicker furniture, 
The kids cross-legged as though the lawn made a shore

We were like filings, lifted straight 
As though a magnet stiffened up 
Our figures like the hair upon 
Our closely cropped skulls. But we, 

I sink into a beanbag chair 
shaped like a giant ear 
but changing shape to fit my rear 

My grandpa Walker Reynolds was a pioneer, too, with a Brigham beard.
Mom says he loved pickles, and dancing music. 
Last time we saw him, Grandma said, “It’s time to hug goodbye,”
and all I could think is how Grandpa’s 

Adam’s sperm number 
one hundred million per cubic centimeter,
hope he can comply with God’s command.