Issue 1:2 | Poetry | Darnell Arnoult
I liked to live in the old
kind of house.
Plenty of good
cracks in the floor.
Finish your corn bread.
Sweep the crumbs
through the cracks.
Under the old kind of house
chickens would get em
fast as they'd fall.

Captain Til Lester
kicked some engineering ass.
Two million gallons
of fire reservoir.  Looked like
a Roman coliseum.
Circles in circles.
Each ring deeper toward middle.
I liked to drown there.
Buck cut a double
gainer once from the high dive.
Sliced the still blue glass
of fourteen feet like a long
slender splinter into skin.

In World War Two
the oldest
of my uncles
picked up
dead bodies
dead weight
some in pieces
and threw them
onto the beds
of trucks.
His work spread
far as he could see.
When he came
home he poured
salted peanuts
into a Co-Cola
and prepared
for life
with folks
who could
never know
some things
as long
as they lived

A claw
hammer talks and
a fiddle trills June Bug
music.  Feet become instruments.
Joy.  Forked Deer.
Autho's feet slip and glide
across saw dusted boards, his jump
so slight
you can't see him
carry melody on
toes.  The bow draws a sad note from
strings and Eslie
puts a plate on Autho's
snowy head.  His feet stroke pine boards.
His head
scarcely moves.  Soles
of his shoes pumice the
floorboards under his feet as if
boards were
strings that vibrate
tone and rhythm under
the dexterous weight of fingertips.
Darnell Arnoult