by Forester McClatchey
The wind unfastened twigs from cedars; fleet
indigo berries bounced to where we read
together, dark globes jumping past our feet,
and then a spritz of rain prickled sweetly
down my neck, teasing out a thread
of thought. I grabbed it, felt it give a neat
sharp tug, hunger-dark and indiscreet,
and knew this moment’s squall was almost dead,
but while it lasted I might hear the beat
of some more generous measure in the sheets
of rain, if I was quiet and listened hard—
I tried, I tried, until ears were obsolete,
but all I heard was snapping twigs and rain,
then tumbled bankrupt into time again.
Forester McClatchey is a poet and critic from Atlanta, GA. He was a finalist for the 2023 Vassar Miller Poetry Prize and the 2023 Able Muse Book Prize, a runner-up in the 2023 Michael Waters Poetry Prize, and his work appears in The Hopkins Review, 32 Poems, Birmingham Poetry Review, Five Points, and Gulf Coast, among other journals. He teaches at Atlanta Classical Academy.
