Ed Higgins’ poems and short fiction have appeared in various print and online journals including: Word Riot, Monkeybicycle, Pindeldyboz, Tattoo Highway, and Blue Print Review, among others. He and his wife live on a small farm in Yamhill, OR, raising a menagerie of animals including two whippets, a manx barn cat (who doesn’t care for whippets), two Bourbon Red turkeys (King Strut and Nefra-Turkey), and an alpaca named Machu-Picchu.
the dung beetle
you won’t find
this in a fortune cookie
but the true dung beetle
gives nuptial gifts
to his heart throb
and this seems
since love depends
on so much shit
you’d think it couldn’t
but it does.
forms forgotten takes
This morning I recalled too loud and too deep
this time what’s forgotten. How thick on my tongue
the words were love said. Pushed back across to me
turned to lost fragrance. The air itself now is suddenly
wrong. Bats filling my lungs with their dark wings,
their soundless voices a lava flow. All remembering
seared backward: capillaries first, veins, arteries, heart,
and brain twist, blacken, spit into flame. I am learning
from here to contain the words for their loss, as some
communion may yet sing me free. I have not remembered
the way everything changes, as the cells in our bodies, or
the weather almost daily. As dreams change made entirely
of their own vanishing, how the words then outlasted themselves..
the kitchen window
twigs, limp stalks,
& rain like brimstone,
spikes down the garden’s
last rune evidence
enough wet wrath
to pit mulch,
black your eyes,
an insufficient wick.
No promise yet
save snow bells,
and the mail’s
early seed catalogs,
on the breakfast table.