Written By: Timothy B. Dodd
Now the boats are lodged in meter mud,
a sorry slant to our oystercatcher’s orange
snip, forsaken to the rain and rot. Change
has arrived — rushed onto this island
like a pack of starving wildebeests, and I
can no longer hear grandmother’s voice
over the motors. Today, even ibis squawk
is different — dead on roofs and steeples,
but rattling in the cracks of our handshakes.
These days we lock our doors and drive
long distances, wreck our remains in search
of a tiny, tranquil spot where birds can
chirp. But then, we’re short on time: Uncle
Raul blows his horn, Mother yells across
the road and Chappie fields a dozen phone
calls. Avocets stopped flinging mussels here,
and the clock dilates our pupils. Back on
the road, baby foxes fail to look down
from the hillside, yet the gas is in a frenzy
to buy plastic-bagged flowers for the bride.
Timothy B. Dodd is from Mink Shoals, WV. His stories have appeared in Yemassee, Coe Review, Glassworks Magazine, and elsewhere; his poetry in The Roanoke Review, Ellipsis, Broad River Review, and other places. He is currently in the MFA program at the University of Texas El Paso.