The Maynard
Spring 2018

He Ring

Each bird a canal into the dam, when it blows, a little two-step, a bird porcelain stride.

Model helicopters, mother buried deep in the model helicopters.

A bicycle with a good escape, laughing all the time, never laughing.

He doesn’t mind if I flush the toilet and pee into it while it goes down.

By saying Walter, you have unsaid Walter, yet all berries are meant for Walter.

An axe golden black in the charcoal sketch, the freedom to make prisoners.

Brushing his teeth at the river.

I am not so chosen for freedom, but from freedom. Bereaved of hatchet.

Why not always the orange door, I am slow, I remember thinking.

Fighter, I am thinking, he is the ring. Walter is where I do my fighting.