Richard Lyons
Breakdown in No Man’s Land, Kentucky
Heat sags and ripples the air.
I set my heft on the grass and unscrew
the gasoline jug, a lick of fumes.
I would nail snails to tree bark
if I thought they deserved less than us.
I’m a thread of milk, a moth.
A fish isn’t oafish in water.
Do I mock-box
with an enlisted man in a bivouac?
Or is it my father before he fathers me?
Does every deed produce a seed?
Laurel wreaths don’t caress the temples.
Ghosts hate saliva greasing gums and teeth.
The field mouse cupped in my two hands
smells like toast. She turns in circles
when I let her loose, hightails it
just before I burden her with a name.
If I can loosen every tendon
like a Zen butcher,
the cow feeling no pain or sensation,
everyone’s orbit is a scythe, exact, ripping the invisible.
Richard Lyons has published four books of poems, the most recent being "Un Poco Loco" (Iris Books). He has published three chapbooks of poems. The two most recent chapbooks are entitled "Heart House" (Emrys Press) and "Sleep on Needles" (Finishing Line Press). He has published poems with The Nation, The New Republic, and The Paris Review, among others. He is a former recipient of a Discovery Prize, as well as a Lavan Award from the Academy of American Poets.