Spellbound
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
Masked
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.