Pat Anthony, four poems

The Blade

he shaped knives with ash

handles like the one that bends

to the shape of her leg inside

scarred boots

gone on forty years now and still

sharp enough to cut through

burr cucumber the ropey vines

of hopweed spines of smilax

as she blazes trails

dusk drops and her hands reek

of No Hunting purple paint

she breathes in

trying to catch the scent

of her Daddy’s gasoline

stained shirt

tung oiled boots

only catches lemon

drifting from sumac

heat rising

off the river and the blade

At the Farmhouse on the Highway

She doesn’t know where they went

just that they’re gone those strands

of turquoise and hot cerise she hung

on the arms of blue berried cedars

spiking wee