Purist, you spawned poems
with a typewriter.
No clues
when you left,
no answers
embedded in words
you cast as easily
as a lone fly fisher,
stance relaxed in the sun,
cap tugged low
to lessen the squint.
I was the shy trout,
my rainbow sides teasing
you in lusty dreams,
your silver words fluttering,
drawing me closer.
A Green Drake
I could not resist striking.
Purist, you gave line
enough to secure.
Your hard retrieve
taught the curve of the hook
in soft flesh.
When you lifted me in
your hand, my mouth,
sore and open,
pulled but found
no air to breathe.
Peggy Hammond has enjoyed a love affair with language and writing her whole life. Her work often explores the spaces left by loss as well as beautiful details of daily existence. Watch for her chapbook The Fifth House Tilts in the fall of 2022 (Kelsay Books). Recent poems appear or are forthcoming in Pangyrus Literary Magazine, The Comstock Review, Waterwheel Review, Fragmented Voices, Eunoia Review, Scissortail Quarterly, The Sandy River Review, Moonstone Arts Center’s anthology Protest 2021, and elsewhere.
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Keep roaring!
FWWR Founder and friend,
Megan Febuary
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