• Broadkill Review

Four poems by B.J. Wilson

Nocturne


the mockingbird calls on

summer moons too


its white throat’s perfume dusting privet blossoms


under the nightshade


as if glazed in a lamination


of snow


Southern nights still cool and recovering


from wisteria:


vines thick as the sweetness of its lavender


precise as the spider


within the lemony petals of each magnolia


and here comes


mockingbird


with the most rowdy of night offices


waking us out of


this dream





Moon Shadow


Killdeer call from a field


green with moonlight


black leaves beyond a creek threading


honeysuckle with wild rose


though bright enough


for moon shadow


it’s too dark to see them


feigning broken wings


if any damage


like the kind you have known


has been brought


to those instruments at all


only the night knows






Moon Pool


the whippoorwill too


like a white orchid blooming in shadow


also wets it mouth


with darkness


round as a May moon when it calls


echoes through trees


stacked black against the mountain


knows what the daylight


can never know


unseen only heard hidden


in the boughs


between dark leaves:


stay and sing to us


sing us asleep until we dream


of stone petals in the pool


above our burial





Night Migrations


Just as I make out lines of geese

that come barking from the dark,