Pond
by
James Owens
I
trick the scum to life with a pebble,
and
wonder, haloed by the water's trouble,
will
this carp, cynic and fat by its drain,
still
nudge among these slimy stones
when
I am perfected to naked bones,
softening
beneath the caustic rain?
The
wind, for only answer, harries
a
rattle of newsprint into the trees.
Rutting
dragonflies twist in couples,
green
as rotting bronze, and kiss their doubles.
Bold
again after a minute's quiet,
the
fertile frogs yell themselves hoarse
by
scraps of garbage, a discourse
on
their tadpoles' choreography.
Old
car batteries seep and bubble.
The
slow carp oozes through mud,
mud-fleshed
owner of the lower sludge,
easing
past broken bottles to draw
little
prey within the vacuum of its jaw.
About
James Owens: His
most recent collection of poems is Mortalia
(FutureCycle Press, 2015). His poems, stories, and translations
appear widely in literary journals, including publications in The
Fourth River, Kestrel, Tule Review, Poetry Ireland Review, and
Southword. He earned an MFA at the University of Alabama and lives in
Wabash, Ind.