Late October, Sardis Lake
Danielle Sellers
We were not yet married. Our bean-
child swung, suspended in my belly, shrimp-clear.
That time of year, the camp fires were few,
just dots of light along the lake edge.
At the next camp, a man beat hell out of his boy. Owl feathers drifted to the fire.
You said you hoped ours would not be a son.
The sun lost to a dark moon.
We argued over the proper way
to begin a long night’s blaze.
When the vein in your temple throbbed,
I sputtered and turned in. You eyed the ax,
raised the volume on the radio.
Against the night, our neighbors’ flames
looked like couples kissing.
I thought, There are ways to lose a thing so small.
Nothing of his should live.
Danielle Sellers is originally from Key West, FL. She has an MA from The Writing Seminars at Johns Hopkins University and an MFA from the University of Mississippi where she held the Grisham Poetry Fellowship. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Subtropics, Smartish Pace, Cimarron Review, Poet Lore, Prairie Schooner, 32 Poems, and elsewhere. Her book, Bone Key Elegies, was published in 2009 by Main Street Rag. She lives in Winter Springs, Florida where she edits The Country Dog Review.