Lawrence Bridges

High Winter Prairie

I rubbed my head wearing headphones
and heard the hollow sound the dead must hear
listening at our walls. I searched for texts
of missing men and women in wars past
but the messages were set to disappear each day.
A monk gets up in silence to just roll along
and emiserates himself for more
by saying "ai" as the door closes on his fingers.
Social creatures with long necks (so lips
and teeth can reach the ground)
break off to live in solitude, away from
the pack. They'd slow the pack down
from lions and can only kick and hope
a big cat takes one in the face
and dies of a broken jaw. I do not
see why my sympathies go with lone
furry fauna. Time will swallow both cat and horse
laying on its side among fresh sage
on the high winter prairie confected
with light snow and larger unknown tracks.

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Lawrence Bridges' poetry has appeared in The New Yorker, Poetry and The Tampa Review. He has published three volumes of poetry: Horses on Drums (Red Hen Press, 2006), Flip Days (Red Hen Press, 2009) and Brownwood (Tupelo Press, 2016). You can find him on IG: @larrybridges