This poem is taken from Stand 216, 15(4) December 2017 - February 2018.

Betsy Johnson-Miller Two Poems
My son won’t
My son won’t walk
in the field with me

unless he gets to carry
a machete.

I finger the weeds. He
whacks them.

Our dogs weave in and out of the dead
corn, rattling the stalks.

The government tells me
my son will be a man in six months.

He’ll get a
ballot and a gun. If need be.

It’s October. The aspen
and birch have turned.

Yellow leaves run away
on the wind.

There is only one maple out here.
Red. Under such a blue sky.


Animal nature
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