Poetry With Hart

This is a genre-bending poem that winds up being 5-6 minutes when read aloud or 5 pages printed. However, I think the payoff is worth it in the end. Originally from a prompt: “to describe what animal or plant you would be reborn as”. I asked if cryptids counted and they laughed and said yes… Not sure if they’ll regret that latitude after I subject them to this…

But that’s a them problem, not a “me” problem. I structured it with a lot of “threes” a poetic storytelling structure I loosely borrowed from Romanian folklore. The cryptid himself is thought to roam the mountains and roadways near Harper’s Ferry, WV going into Maryland. The formatting is giving me issues separating stanzas so I’ll update it later when I figure out how to fix it, apologies.

And without further backstory and babbling, I introduce my puppers…

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In this moment’s repose

a memoir near prose

and it goes like this…

.

Growing up, my family was defined

by the mountain, my mother

used to say if someone went missing

“that wild dogs got them”

like another way to say

they just went for a run

and they’ll be back later

like this is an everyday thing

that happens to all families

like we were normal.

.

The first time I saw you

I didn’t really, your gray white 

fur matted in the moonlight

coming in thru the kitchen 

because that’s how the family

entered or exited our house

always the kitchen door,

never the front.

You yipped and yowled

awaking my mother and I.

.

Just my mother and I

because even in our dreams

women don’t sleep really

and that’s what this was,

I had thought, just a dream

the wild dogs got in

they came to get someone

what she said finally came true

somehow my mother just knew,

mother’s are after all always right.

.

The next day 

she got the call

my brother, 

my first friend

my Irish twin, 

his evaluation

was done,

and our family

would never be 

the same again.

.

Tighter fit, only us, no one allowed in

family was no longer the word for it

a pack we grew to call ourselves

my brothers and I running the woods

like we were born to it

the smell of dry bark

the feel of mud, crisp air

biting flesh as the wind whipped

our hair, we didn’t see the

starlight for the tree canopy

but we always knew 

the moon was there.

.

The first time he ran away

you were there too.

This time not in the dream

but to wake me from it

to the frigid February air

I heard your yowl sharp

echoing to a deep resonant

bell in the base of the valley

I rose knowing only something, 

something, something, was wrong.

.

Woodstove fire out

bedroom door ajar

kitchen door open

flurries coming in.

My shoes on

Footsteps fast.

I didn’t know how

but I knew

I’d find him.

.

So many years past

since that winter warning

that three in the morning

but I remember tracking him

small footprints in the dark

the wet bark musk

air damp enough 

the mist of it

could grow moss on your coat

as you padded thru

no light but for the grace

of the moon.

.

Were they your footprints

or his? I always wanted to ask,

but never had the courage.

.

Your red eyes 

ripped thru the trees, 

stark bloodshot

contrast to the snow.

I looked back 

without fear of you, 

my fear lived 

much nearer to home

than that, 

after all.

.

I saw your shadow 

shade form stretch

I took a step forward

a moment’s repose as

ice crashed on my nose.

I blinked, and there was 

no shadow where my brother

now stood caressed 

by the snowfall,

in the crescent of the moon.

.

It took me years to see you

once again, and I had grown

so tired by then

of the mountain

the family, the pain

but mostly just bone weary

tired as I drove home

celebrating college midterms,

graduation only two 

and a half semesters away.

.

I could almost smell it

if victory had a scent

and then they’d say 

“she was here and 

then there she went”

I planned to leave the mountain

say goodbye to the soft hello

in the morning, the warmth

of the Blue Ridge at sunset

like a quilt stretching

across the sky stitched with

love in the seams

like my mother used to make

the ripple of treetops for

batting and a pattern

so deep in design no one

can truly know its name.

But you had other plans

didn’t you? as I grew so tired,

was that you there?

.

On the road there that day

named like it drove

“Flowing Springs”

I don’t remember the impact

car crashes never record 

in your mind well, but my bones 

sure do remember it

when rain drips down

the kitchen windowpanes, I feel it

ache deep in my body

like a coal mine of pain collected

over time, building higher

with each and every year. 

.

I did eventually leave the mountain awhile

but your eyes never left me.

The scarlet sight tucked

itself in the recesses of my thoughts

like the old dog you were

curling up next to the fire within me

keeping warm and to warn me

with you customary yowl 

when danger lurked near. 

.

I knew I’d come back

You knew I’d come back,

Leaving was a fool’s errand.

.

Is that why you’re here?

Is it finally time, I ask

the rain now battering 

window frames. 

tea kettle whistle 

drowned out by 

your yowl, pain reaching 

its final crescendo 

as I collapse

on the ground.

.

In this moment’s repose a memoir 

near prose a poetic elegy 

for who I once used to be…

.

I hear you calling to me

the opportunity to be reborn

to join you, to finally know again 

family, how its supposed to be,

a pack defined by the mountain.

I leave the kettle on, my body

now an abandoned husk on the floor

as my soul emerges in shadow

red eyes puncturing the storm and…

.

I run.