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Two Poems by Trenton Pollard | Word Riot
Poetry

August 22, 2016      

Two Poems by Trenton Pollard

LATE MAY ON THE BLACKFOOT

Fog and dust from the county road
diffuse first light.

Wolf lichen hanging from the pines
dries and drops into the river.

Staring from the water’s edge
at the hypnotic crush of foam,

I try not to fall in
while he sleeps.

BISON-SORTING ON MY GRANDFATHER’S RANCH

The bison writhe against
their wooden cage,
duck down into a dog-stretch
then buck, float their hips,
rock back to look up.
Hooves pummel soft barn dirt
and awaken rotted creosote,
burnt oil, and dust.

A shy one, smaller than the rest,
bows and shows me his broken horn.
Violet blood coagulates
under the cold air, mats the hair
between his eyes, runs down his snout,
drips.

I want to dip
my finger in his blood
and draw pictures on the wall.
Color a story older
than the iced December light,
the April slaughter or sale.

I do nothing, save
beat his hind
with a splintered cane.

image1 (2)About the author:

Trenton Pollard’s poems are forthcoming in Denver Quarterly, Lambda Literary, The Journal, and elsewhere. He lives in New York City.

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