Alex Guarco lives south of Boston, where he works in book publishing. He is an
assistant editor of The Adirondack Review, and his work has most recently appeared
in, or is forthcoming in, DIALOGIST, The Bakery, The Siren Journal, and Niche.

Like Wind and Wolves

and us, lapsed into what's
so quickly gone—the stetted
jokes; the pummel of steam
in morning and you, over
the paper; how close I pull,
so often dumb in this play
and taking of turns.

If we could admit a fear
of leaving; the split draw
of waking, well, then,
I am afraid of everything
& when you are just smoke
between my fingers I will
fill my mouth with tea from
your cedar box, and maybe
—in the far spirals of
mountains—you will

learn to swing, bare
feet out, bars and us
between your
belted fingers. I will
bite these bags before
drawing you close again;
will clean the floors of their
sand and strings so I can
come to, on the current,

burrow in the whip—
the old salt of your neck.

Cause Son, I Ain't Just Right, Either

I see you blank
in awe, the half-

thought & posted
picture; the roll
of tongue and tooth;
in mocking, mocking.

Mostly though, you
in the steady hurl

of flat stones
through a pond;

of counting
the sides, long

before seeing
the stones.

Before a Summer Storm, and a Shaken Head or Two

We press each other's names,
etc., against the back window,

knowing well the folds in
clouds, the bellies of

leaves, peach
trees and slow


Maybe, when
the time comes,

we'll watch
the trees unpin—

Early Tulips, the Long Wait

and a father's own yield—
the abandon of one kid

& another, of having
found new reason for

building second chance,
for son. At the bus stop

the boy's hand hangs
in oath, free as form

with eyes in the flowers
and strips of roadside—

clean morning yellow,
their best nights coming

clear in a hurling storm,
in arms imagined under

the bed, in slow kitchen
drawings. And the boy—

he'll sire out his own
someday; will curl

and call his small
stallions renewal

in familial impulse; in
the smile and swing

of little ones, cattle-
out to the blacktop.

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