Patrimony
my father sends me night vision
photographs of a coyote
he’s mistaken for stills of the ghost
of a long-murdered child
he asks what do you see i see only
coyote i try to equivocate
but again he asks what do you see
i say look at this specter
there he dawdles the cold prairie
swallows him up yes i see
him now worn denim overalls bare
feet pale little hands fists
at his sides i have only this gift
he asks only this question
so i tell him say look how he shivers
wild crop of hair wonder
what keeps him don’t tell my father
the velvet fur cinnamon
tawny coyote altricial yet orphaned
a juvenile captured alone
in this image glares backwards
at the camera he flashes
one animal eye but i too am fulvous
my milk teeth all canines
if i could transform myself into an heir
Avulsed
When I think of your father I never think of him dead
the way I want to just passed
out with a drink in his hand (how you still marvel
at his ability not to spill) himself poured
onto the armchair I think of Christmas trees cozy
mantels wreathed in green (his favorite
color was) such a special touch
for growing things the verdigris of bruises
older than his memory and you say you don’t miss
him I think of the day he severed
the tip of his right middle finger (slammed
in the shop room door but didn’t notice) he left
it in a pile of sawdust for the lunch lady to find
the doctors stretched out the skin
till it covered the end of his tissue-wrapped bone you
(couldn’t be sewn back) came home in his chair
graying boxers and green robe cup
skillfully balanced he looked at his fist
and said a part of me is gone.
pome fruit
in the daylight we shared our
hunger our forked tongues first
name numbing fingers the dead
grass one overripe apple baby
pink polish the skin is an edible
layer of flesh scarred by seasons
unkind and unfed we were loose
teeth and hurry i knew i had you
when you told me i made you re-
member your mother the dark
we were edging the panic peeled
back by morning cored out again
nothing at all
Communion
My mother told me to blame
it on a woman’s lust
for ripened fruits and reptiles
instead of the will
of her husband I found no
comfort in this her
deflection nailed her laundry
list of grievances
to the tree but I picked apples
and I bled yes I still
bleed for it for days I’ve hated
her this broken
body recurrent sacrament
to grief cannibal
gift mother to child the bread
the wine the holy
glut remember me dysphoric
crimson blossoms
on the sheets.
Jennifer Lobaugh lives in small-town Oklahoma with their dog and too many Halloween decorations. Their work has appeared in journals such as THRUSH and The Southampton Review. Their chapbook squall won the Oklahoma Writers’ Federation Best Book of Poetry award and is available from dancing girl press.