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Two poems by Angie Dribben

Updated: Apr 3, 2022


Where I’m from we’re taught young

the catch patterns of a man.

Bake the blood of our moons

into their supper.

It’s his tongue sets off the trap pan—

warm and wet and searching everhungry.

Yet still a woman must be clever.

Careful Canis Iatrans,

don’t turn the flame too high—

tend towards maceration.

Fennel, carrot, and leek lure the lagomorph.

A man unsnared is quick to dodge

the ambush of root aromatics.

Chary, Coyot-woman, we are bound

to the spells we cast. Two hind legs—

one coyote, one hare,

caught in my own coil spring

Here Grandmomma Tells the Story

For my family

I was eleven

Enough to howl

Tell me a story

Of night walk, the wolf I love

The snow moon not always in the sky

Silent expanse

Of blood kin

Tell the story

Where two windows meet


In the soil their parents sprang from

No one said a word to me

Of the blackberry patch

Killed by a rattlesnake

Boundaries of some kind

A red dirt road

We’d never been down before

Grandmomma tells the story

Of wild mushrooms

Forget the rabbit

She says, I don’t remember

The way of hawk

I have no between

The moon is too young

To know the threat

Of shadows

Angie Dribben’s debut collection, Everygirl, was a finalist for the 2020 Broadkill Review Dogfish Head Prize. She is Contributing Reviews Editor at Cider Press Review, a Bread Loaf contributor,and a recent MFA grad from Randolph College. Her most recent work can be found in Orion,Coffin Bell, Split Rock Review, The Night Heron Barks, Cave Wall,EcoTheo, Big City Lit, and others.

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