Jack Bedell
Dream: Blue Glass
Last night, I was back on my grandparents’ land
dragging a pellet gun around like it was
summer and I was young enough
to have all day doing it. In this dream,
there were so many things that needed
shooting—copperheads lying on rocks
along the creek, blue jays squalling in the scrub oaks,
bats diving against open sky—
but I wanted blue glass stacked
on an old tractor with the sun dying
behind it. I carried that want through
the whole night, just praying
I’d find a bottle to set up on the nose
of my grandfather’s tractor, catch it
just right between its label and cap
with my shot, so I could see
rainbows spray all over
the ground off the shatter.
Maunder
I would love to live in a town
where they only built roundabouts
if there was an old oak growing
where they’d like the roads to cross.
I’d love to live in a town that was
a little less like a Flannery O’Connor story,
a place where people felt free to sing
wherever they were, and where there was
plenty of porches to sit a spell.
I’d cook big meals in that town and teach
my dog to walk next to me without a leash.
That place would smell like fresh rain,
no doubt. And there’d always be
a steady breeze without it meaning
a storm was headed our way.