The Maynard
Spring 2015

Ace Boggess

Is There Something You Are Not Telling Me?

question asked by Greg Leatherman

I sit on a stone bench & let the smoke paralyze me
as I watch a minor spider balance on its silk
between two weeds, a black swallowtail
draw a magic-marker streak at my peripheral.
It’s not that I don’t want to share these things—
mine in the context of my being there.
What should I say about each forced pause
to take nature in, five minutes at a time?
Just now, a doe ambled up the road,
three speckled fawns following close
in duckling single-file. The last limped,
wrestling with death to keep her mother’s pace.
Forgive me if I didn’t plan to speak of this.
My hand grew tired from cradling its butt.
My pen fell asleep on a table in the house.