Copperhead Madrigal

Lisa Russ Spaar

BPR 45 | 2018

Shuddered, the grin its body wrests,
cloven by axe in the drive,
a braided, lanyard jump-rope
dropped asudden by sweated fists.

Run. As if called home from play
to dinner, neon pylons igniting
the paisley blueprint of suburbia.
But no. This is the old country,

&, as in dreams, all gelid wrists,
your weapon hangs, a slowing pendulum
above oozing parts the dog,
in hackles, huffing, cannot resist.

Did you think the soul could live thus,
the body severed from its wanderlust?