Two Poems by Kathy Fagan

FARM EVENING IN THE BLUE SMOKE

Though it was late, with a storm coming in,
our friends sat on the porch, smoking and drinking.
I went to my room, the laughter and talk loud
but oddly dear to me. I had a drowsy thought about
the flock in the dark—did human noises
scare them?—then worried when the storm began:
would they huddle in the small barn
with the strays and wren, could they
half sleep, as I did, to the sound of rain
sluicing down the corrugated rooftops
and the awed tones of humans, their faces
film reel in the lightning?
For my part, it was too late to feel anything
but safe among the prey.

STRAY

The lamb is bleating circles round the pasture.
He slipped from his enclosure like a soul—
through three fences!—and because he’s still nursing,
his calls draw alarming response from the herd.

He won’t come to me, though I want to help,
this one they call Freezer for his not-distant future,
this one of ginger wool the color and texture
of my dead grandfather’s hair behind his Bible.

And lo, there will be joyful celebration
when the shepherd delivers the stray back to his flock,
the ewe’s teats near to bursting at his return.

How nice the little handfuls of my own
mammal breasts have felt when I cup them,
buoyed up above their human flesh.

You think the space you occupy is large
and then— You think your one life precious—

Kathy Fagan’s newest collection is Sycamore (Milkweed Editions, 2017). A recipient of NEA and OAC fellowships, her recent work appears in Poetry, Numero Cinq, The New Republic, Blackbird, and Crazyhorse. Fagan directs the MFA Program at Ohio State and edits the OSU Press/The Journal Wheeler Poetry Prize Series.