Red gate and horse shit
A tree fell in the pasture
last night my neighbor says
over the phone and my dad pulls
on muddy boots and a shirt
full of snag-holes,
tosses me a look and the truck
keys, heads for the tractor.
In her pasture, we have to go
through a red gate and horse shit
to get to the tree. A steer stares
across the field. We don’t make
eye contact. The ripping of the
chainsaw allows us to pretend
we have nothing to say.
McKinley Johnson (he/him) is a poet from the foothills of Appalachia. He is the Assistant Poetry Editor of phoebe, a Coordinator for Poetry Alive!, and an editorial reader for Poetry Daily. His work is published or forthcoming in The Shore, West Trade Review, South Carolina Review, and elsewhere.