Poetry
About the Soul / Sean Cho A.
Image by Flora Westbrook
the soul is a ten point buck lapping the cloudy pollen film
off the surface of a fox hounds bowl
on the front porch of a hunter I never said thirsty
in the forest the river mud hasn’t been dry for years
and each morning-magic wets the grass
with sweet water: the world is bad
on the other side of three locked doors the hunter sleeps
as his tree hued socks soak in doe urine hoping
to disguise his body with the possibility
of love all of this is unnecessary
sitting on the cool side of the front door the foxhound teeths
on a frozen venison liver
the leaves crisp again
the hunter wakes and sprays
his window air conditioner
clean for winter storage
the calendar says
it’s a bad time
to be godless