by Sarah Dickenson Snyder
These words will name the one
dragged out of the woods by two men
dragged out of the woods by two men
to the dirt road I walk on, how the day
before I had startled one in our field,
& all I saw was the white flag of its leaving,
& today I see a long, limp tongue hanging out
from the quiet mouth as the men lift it
into the back of a truck, the sagging
body, four hooves held by their hands.
Hands. Hooves. How a bullet leaves a body
still & stained, & now every day I will look on the edge
of the road for signs of blood & write
this poem over & over. In every death
sloughed skin to become again.
That settling of death right next to you,
how you move over, make room for it.
Sarah Dickenson Snyder lives in Vermont, carves in stone, & rides her bike. Travel opens her eyes. She has four poetry collections, The Human Contract (2017), Notes from a Nomad (nominated for the Massachusetts Book Awards 2018), With a Polaroid Camera(2019), and Now These Three Remain (nominated for the Massachusetts Book Awards 2023). Poems have been nominated for Best of Net and Pushcart Prizes. Work is in Rattle, Lily Poetry Review, and RHINO.
Sarah Dickenson Snyder lives in Vermont, carves in stone, & rides her bike. Travel opens her eyes. She has four poetry collections, The Human Contract (2017), Notes from a Nomad (nominated for the Massachusetts Book Awards 2018), With a Polaroid Camera(2019), and Now These Three Remain (nominated for the Massachusetts Book Awards 2023). Poems have been nominated for Best of Net and Pushcart Prizes. Work is in Rattle, Lily Poetry Review, and RHINO.