Green Hills Literary Lantern

 

 

 

Deer Bones

 

 

My dog brings me

bones he finds

in tangled brown

grass where I see

only a broad plain

of mown hay.  He

mouths a mandible

or a scapula

from a deer.  I

do not know how

large – I need bones

articulated, fleshed

out, in context,

not fragments

frozen in time,

dropped from my dog’s

mouth with his

slobbered grin

of discovery.  I

see only a bone,

a death, a graceful

leap that ceased

in mid-air, then

dropped into unmown

hay, another

piece of what

once was that I

cannot articulate.

 

 

 

Richard Dinges, Jr. has an MA in literary studies from University of Iowa, and he no longer manages information systems at an insurance company.  Westview, Pinyon, Writers Bloc, Big Windows Review, and Slant most recently accepted his poems for their publications.