Photo.

 

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Flaws Make Us

 

C.A. MacConnell

Baby, Walk Right

Again, September wind rushes in,
carrying the sound

of red-tailed hawks,
and I'm surrounded

by the screech of it.
Look, the wings always

come back. Inside, they know.
No one ever reminds them

that it's their season.
Here, the fields are wild,

too-tall, and narrowly fenced-in;
some blades nearly touch

my thigh. Like prairie grass,
loose, calm waves sway yellow,

here and there singed
from another changed summer,

and outside every day,
but for the few fly nets,

these horses are naked.
First, I am muscle and manic

with the new, a baby
trying to prove myself.

We ache, made of bones
and skin, like them.

You and I live
for the strange, big eye,

the flight, the fresh-cut hay,
the hidden music

within animal silence,
and the clapping laughter

of the crowd.
Sometimes I get this life;

it makes sense to clean, feed,
sweat through the jeans,

and keep the blood
close to the heart.

It makes sense
to walk right

when leading the barefoot Paint
to the pasture,

making sure his hooves
strike the grass path,

rather than the gravel one,
because I see him squint,

and I know the journey must sting
without shoes.

C.A. MacConnell

 

PS. BOOK FOUR COMING SOON! STAY TUNED! FINAL STAGES!

Photo: Fence

 

C.A. MacConnell

Alive

*Hollins University Literary Festival Poetry Prize

Alive

You are sick again, filling your prescription at the counter in a feverish daze, back turned
to the fast walkers who cut through the crowd with shopping cart weapons, cursing
yourself because you still want a cigarette. You finish muttering your condition, hand

the white slip to the coated, vague bodies, and turn around, looking for a place to linger,
when you see him waiting for his name, sitting in the row of uniform chairs, one empty
on either side of him. You sit down on his left, notice his soiled skin, the wide-lined

scars, the way his clothes hang on his frame as if one move would make them fall, piece
by piece, until he is naked, another man with the same anatomy, labels on the parts
that make him alive. You feel like patting yourself on the back. No one else would have

gotten so close. A suited, fat man struts up to your scarred partner in waiting, studies
his appearance, asks him if he’d like a chance to better himself, to find a job, to clean up, leaves him a thick brochure, and drifts down the aisles with a holy grin. The scarred man

shakes his head, looks into you with blue eyes clear as an ache, strong as your hacking
cough that just won’t go away, and says, You just never know about people, before he
grips your hand and tells you his name, tells you to take care. There is nothing polite

in the way his soft, tired voice works through his chest to his limbs, leaves the thick lips
Before he even spoke, you knew him. Before he even took your hand, you were already
touching. A smile, some kind of tug in your chest, and the joy of strangeness makes you

want to collect everyone in a circle, close your eyes, listen to each mysterious song
of skin and bones, cup your hand around the closest ear, and whisper, Pass it on.

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: East Fork

 

C.A. MacConnell

A Good Hand

She’s not playing any

War.

Maybe some stray cats suck cigars.
They like to bet.
They like to watch.
Others play poker in the
Basement.

She returns for

More.

Maybe some like to
Fish.
Maybe by the river, an all-day game
With the packed cooler,
And the bait,
And the hook.

Always, she wishes for a good

Hand.

She can’t live

With the broken zipper.
The only fix
Is the face, and some kind of

Reality, like blue
Eyeshadow.

-- C.A. MacConnell