Red Door 33

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POETRY Idaho Lake Fragments 1. Swallow’s nest wedged in the hawthorn, woven with pine needles— lodgepole, white, ponderosa—and thickened earth. You are not a cradle or a bedroom but like a bedroom cradle you shelter, rock. Bring me the protection of clay. 2. Eagle, wings ruffling the rain drenched air. Bald head a splash of light above Spring Lake. You are not a mood, but like a mood you darken and brighten and fade. There, then gone. There. Gone over the tree-lined hills. Acquaint me with transience. 3. Snag. Are those ponderosa limbs twisting from your torso? The deep green has moved into the crevices of your puzzled bark. Your gray head snapped and rutted. You are not an aging woman but like some ancient grandmother you are striking, stricken, snagged. Standing, still. Offer your branched wisdom. 4. Campfire: cracked red mudrocks cradle your imperfect head. Charred logs crisscross old coals. Flames gone days, or maybe weeks. You are not her body, but like my mother whose limbs I held as she crossed over, your flame still is in its vanishing. Kindle me. 5. Cattails—carnival corndogs, fairgoers crowding the shoreline. Swamped family, springtime pelts warming your oblong heads as you age into summer. You are not wands or wizards but like a wizard wand you can bend perception—be gentle with your whispering change. DJ Lee is a writer, scholar, artist, and regents professor of English at Washington State University. She has published over forty essays and prose poems, the memoir Remote: Finding Home in the Bitterroots (Oregon State 2020), and eight scholarly books, including The Land Speaks (Oxford 2017). **Previously published in The Bayan Review, Issue 15, Summer ´23 024
Hollowman Goes To The Beach Hollowman fills up with gold again to get From one side of the day to the other intact Negotiates its architecture with some bravado Thwarted as usual during his rickety rickshaws Doomedfutileoverambitioushalfhearted Poorlyexecutedovertakingmanoeuvre By worrying that as soon as he stops worrying The Bad Thing will come because he does Sustain all existence after all. His glass of chai is getting cold, the universe is growing old And crab and crow will be there at the end While whirling eagles whinny like tiny Pegasi and Scuttling crustaceans will always signify Tsunami to him now. Young yogis at sunset? Drowning on ketamine. The sea itself? Death, death. His cruel mind-claws Pinch him with the thought of his own children Old on a hot world but luckily the crabs Scavenge this carrion that he scatters on the sand And anyway their golden tunnels are inside him Jon Whitbread is an artist working and living in Brixton, South London. 025
Page 1 and 2: RED DOOR 33 THE UNFORESEEABLE FEATU
Page 3 and 4: NATURE & CULTURE international poet
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Red Door 33

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