Poetry By Beth Kanell

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Borderland
 
It’s April, and the weather’s feverish, fragile, fidgeting: a gust of south wind
(daffodils eager to open swollen buds) followed by soft weeping mist, then
wild swing of the compass to northwest to advance pellets of hail. Some hours
call for taking arms against such ready chaos of yard and garden—loppers
trimming twigs that dangle from the old apple tree, and vigorous raking
for the edges of the lawn. Then quick promises
 
crumple and fly, as what was brief blue sky darkens, while a murder of crows
turns raucous and triumphant, fleeing the scene. Catch a black feather, wild weather,
mud in the roadways and at dusk an uncertain chorus, faint at first, snatching
attention: hyla, the hidden peeping frogs, announcing lively lusts. It’s all
too much sometimes. Mount the porch steps, slip inside, shut the windows,
let it rain all night. Walk the border of summer
 
in a cascade of dreams, a waterfall filled and roaring; a cemetery seeping
with spongy turf around weeping granite slabs. Any deer that visits this night
leaves a line of heart-shaped hoofprints, scatters tumbling ticks, barely
rustles. Yes, births arrive in April. Woodchucks, porcupines, early birds
releasing dribbles of worms for new nestlings. But this is the borderland, and
I’m haunted, hunted, hounded. Mouthing his name.
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Beth Kanell lives in northeastern Vermont. Her novels include This Ardent Flame and The Long Shadow (SPUR Award winner); her short fiction shows up in Lilith and elsewhere. Find her memoirs on Medium, her reviews at the New York Journal of Books, her poems in small well-lit places.