Sassaquois, the Old People Know
we will never find his bones in the swamp,
or any part of his hide left under a tree.
He is more spirit than thing, always
walking in the woods, not
through them, his shoulders
wider than a buck’s rack,
his knock an echo in our bones.
If he shows himself, it won’t be
to help us. He is a warning,
witness to our wrongs.
He will leave us broken branches
in the tops of trash oak, warm
nests flattened in the grass.
He smells the salt on the air,
watches it roll in with the tide,
feels the tree roots choking,
the saw grass losing hold,
and wastes no doubt on what we are.
we will never find his bones in the swamp,
or any part of his hide left under a tree.
He is more spirit than thing, always
walking in the woods, not
through them, his shoulders
wider than a buck’s rack,
his knock an echo in our bones.
If he shows himself, it won’t be
to help us. He is a warning,
witness to our wrongs.
He will leave us broken branches
in the tops of trash oak, warm
nests flattened in the grass.
He smells the salt on the air,
watches it roll in with the tide,
feels the tree roots choking,
the saw grass losing hold,
and wastes no doubt on what we are.
All Spirit Must Take a Name
—Adams, Tennessee
Not the hate so much
as a wounded heart, even
the dim memory of hope,
can slide a chair across wooden floors,
or stoke the dying embers
in the bedroom fireplace
to burning flame. Meanness cannot
slam doors. Only wishes
gone cold can move anything,
anywhere. And what is a name
if it isn’t hope? Even if
you were not Kate alive,
take that name to twist
your scream into voice. Use it
as an answer when they beg
to know who’s poisoned John Bell.
Let them cry that name
into the mouths of caves
when their blood tells them
they will not find love in a boy,
will never shake the dark
as long as they know your name,
will feel you in the murmurs
every bed makes before dawn.
*Originally published in Mojave He[art] Review
—Adams, Tennessee
Not the hate so much
as a wounded heart, even
the dim memory of hope,
can slide a chair across wooden floors,
or stoke the dying embers
in the bedroom fireplace
to burning flame. Meanness cannot
slam doors. Only wishes
gone cold can move anything,
anywhere. And what is a name
if it isn’t hope? Even if
you were not Kate alive,
take that name to twist
your scream into voice. Use it
as an answer when they beg
to know who’s poisoned John Bell.
Let them cry that name
into the mouths of caves
when their blood tells them
they will not find love in a boy,
will never shake the dark
as long as they know your name,
will feel you in the murmurs
every bed makes before dawn.
*Originally published in Mojave He[art] Review
The News, Again
My daughter wants to know
what that whale is thinking
carrying its dead calf around
on its snout for seventeen days.
I tell her its pain is probably a lot
like ours. We all do the best we can
with it. She wants to know
if the whale thinks its calf
will come back to life
if she just keeps carrying it.
I tell my daughter we all hold on
to hope as long as we can. She asks
if the whale’s hope is bigger
than ours because it's a whale.
I tell her all hope can swell
to fit our idea of God. She wants
to know if that hope dies, too,
if we don’t take care of it.
I think of how my eyes always
well up at Mass when we sing
“grant us peace,” and tell her
our souls give us hope that won’t die,
but it can turn like milk to cheese
if we keep it in the wrong place too long.
*Originally published in Mojave He[art]Review
My daughter wants to know
what that whale is thinking
carrying its dead calf around
on its snout for seventeen days.
I tell her its pain is probably a lot
like ours. We all do the best we can
with it. She wants to know
if the whale thinks its calf
will come back to life
if she just keeps carrying it.
I tell my daughter we all hold on
to hope as long as we can. She asks
if the whale’s hope is bigger
than ours because it's a whale.
I tell her all hope can swell
to fit our idea of God. She wants
to know if that hope dies, too,
if we don’t take care of it.
I think of how my eyes always
well up at Mass when we sing
“grant us peace,” and tell her
our souls give us hope that won’t die,
but it can turn like milk to cheese
if we keep it in the wrong place too long.
*Originally published in Mojave He[art]Review
Jack B. Bedell is Professor of English and Coordinator of Creative Writing at Southeastern Louisiana University where he also edits Louisiana Literature and directs the Louisiana Literature Press. Jack’s work has appeared in Southern Review, Birmingham Poetry Review, Pidgeonholes, The Shore, Cotton Xenomorph, Okay Donkey, EcoTheo, The Hopper, Terrain, saltfront, and other journals. His latest collection is No Brother, This Storm (Mercer University Press, 2018). He served as Louisiana Poet Laureate 2017-2019.