Blood Hounds

Michael Martin
| poetry


I wake up and brew the coffee
And patiently wait for the gurgle,
It’s like the last noise
Rising off the wild boar the blood
Hound smothered an Age ago.


I set the raspberries free.
The knotted harvest table was built to last
Yet often when the sun beams across it
What seems so gets to seeming not so very so at all.


The cat no longer drops
The little dead mouse on the doorstep
And death doesn’t knock over the house
Lamps like it used to;
You can see horse cemeteries from this other window.


The children only visit once in a blue moon
And I already mentioned the sun.


I mean my hand was just on your shoulder
And then it wasn’t.


Michael Martin is a writer, editor, and filmmaker living in North Carolina. His first collection of poetry, Extended Remark, was published by Portals Press in 2015. Poems from his new poetry manuscript first appeared in literary publications such as American Journal of Poetry, Poetry Ireland, New Orleans Review, and RHINO, among many others.

elegy for félicette, first cat in space
Postcard from the South