J. Bailey Hutchinson
Holler
I dream-leave in racket.
in butterbee hootenanny.
the sun a canker squalling greets
down my throat—and me back,
everypeople-big but determined
to be heard by a star.
gulletful of crickets and taking.
knell thick with birds and their congress.
many years I wondered if everyone
hot-got this way, waking
in instant beef with silence.
I don’t mean it but
every room I enter I fill,
too stocked on antmill will
to be what size I am,
too bent on lending
a little glow to whatever body’s
party to mine
though sometimes
even I arrive at the end
of a thick quiet, not rightly knowing
how long I got there—
two, three hours making and meeting
no sound.
my hands in the sink, or on myself.
who is this footless spook,
where does she live
in the noisy bus of me?
it’s not a walk
I thought to take. it’s not
an aloe I sought.
it’s a coming-to in rhinosized
nothing. like
knee-folding in hunger,
blankly, and waking
midswallow
in a bed
of neutral glue
but—
listen closer. a healthy plant
bubbles
like a little-throated feline.
oaks rub toes
with nearby flora when felled.
lilies, greening, catching the
silk talk of a wasp, sugar their drink.
friends, my mean in noise
is always this: to share.
with you.
a little more sweetness.
Dog Wisdom
Again winter pins me in its dark
belly. Again the night’s
quick to name every chipped
tooth, my shallowing river.
Again I sup what little light
makes its way to me like an
obligate bluebottle, bolted
and small. Can I say the dog
saves me? Her warm. Her little.
I don’t wonder if something
that has to love me really
loves me. I don’t. She bums
against my knee like I am
made for her sleeping,
and I am. Her generous cheek,
the divine appointment
of each black toe. At the window
she watches a cold-harrowed pine
do nothing. Gorged on daylight.
Stinking with peace. When I touch
her leg she hardly considers it,
but she does lean, a little. O,
to watch a tree. To trust a touch entirely.
When she thinks—as I am sure
she thinks—I am sure it is not
about death. Only the simple wind
of my hand. Crow-sounds. Snow. Dinner.
J. Bailey Hutchinson (she/her) is the author of Gut, winner of the Miller Williams Poetry Prize, and a recipient of a Creative Writing Fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts. Hutchinson’s work has appeared in Cream City Review, Ninth Letter, Beloit, and elsewhere. She is a freelance editor and teaches creative writing workshops in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Her website is jbaileyhutchinson.com.