Chad Foret

 

Some termites sleep inside their appetites,
    make caves in the stomach of a decoy.

Wings like small machetes shuddered
in the pickerelweeds while a widgeon

landed in the blind to pray
for a sister.

                     There’s some grace
in the apprehension of a claw: I

want to scuttle into shadow where
    hermits shut their hands, lumber

aching like a savior.
                                       The bones—

ambiguous, but all there was for us
  to eat. We gripped the anonymity,

inhaling marrow like a horn.

 

Return to Fall Issue Volume 11.1

 

 

Chad Foret is recent graduate of the Creative Writing program at The University of Southern Mississippi. He teaches world literature and composition at Southeastern Louisiana University. Recent work appears or is forthcoming in Best New Poets, Tupelo Quarterly, Spoon River Poetry Review, The Pedestal Magazine, Nashville Review, and other journals and anthologies.