We go to that place where the wind is ruined,
where the water is gone but roses still remain.
We cut our heels on rusted halos and piles
of yellow teeth. The hounds give up their dinner
to chase a shadow, quick bolts of darkness striking
through the underbrush. Your hand reaches out,
statues itself as the last thread of light mildews
across your face; green-ebony pulse of living color.
A siren breathes in the ether and I abandon myself.
Three miles outside of town, the scarecrows descend,
from their perches, they rustle the corn so knowingly,
and the boys who witness this never forget.
One will run for mayor of North Richland Hills, Texas.
The other will flatten himself against the street,
become a black ribbon of nighttime, pay money
for a masked man to chase him through a harvest field.
You have no way of knowing all of this, un-paused now
by the hounds’ return, one beast veiled in dry leaves,
loose webs dangling from her jowls like violent foam.
The other, at just the right angle, sprouting four delicate legs,
red eyes replacing the night, the quiver of your words
as you whisper Don’t let him touch your teeth.
John T. Leonard is an award- winning writer, English teacher, and poetry editor for Twyckenham Notes. He holds an M.A. in English from Indiana University. His previous works have appeared in Poetry Quarterly, december, Chiron Review, North Dakota Review, Roanoke Review, Punt Volat, The Windsor Review, Rappahannock Review, Jelly Bucket, Mud Season Review, The Blue Mountain Review, Genre: Urban Arts, Stonecoast Review, and Trailer Park Quarterly. He lives in Elkhart, Indiana with his wife, three cats, and two dogs. You can follow him on Twitter at @jotyleon and @TwyckenhamNotes.