• Broadkill Review

Four poems by B.J. Wilson


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


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,