I worked for your mother one summer digging. Setting roots tangled up in soil from some other place into holes about as deep and wide as a kettle. I relished disturbing stones and my sweat soaked into the heart roots of a dozen peach tree saplings. That island didn’t need an orchard and the ocean was too close. A horse dies on the beach every few years. Guts twisted by sand they take in along with the surf grass. They tear up the dunes as they die, leaving a record of pain that the wind revises as soon as they become still. We found one that summer just out of reach of a full moon’s high tide. The sand on its eye like sugar on the back of a spoon.
Lee Potts is the author of the chapbook And Drought Will Follow and is poetry editor at Barren Magazine. His work has appeared in The Night Heron Barks, Rust + Moth, Whale Road Review, UCity Review, Firmament, Moist Poetry Journal, and elsewhere. He lives just outside of Philadelphia. He’s @LeePottsPoet on Twitter.