Suburban Murmurs

by Matthew Williams

Suburban Murmurs

a grandmother lifts her hands to catch the laughing child

fields of orange poppies name our naked flanks running

she plucks and eats the summer from bushes in the backyard

tall as a robin my father stands at the roadside holding an unlit cigarette

a woman hangs a white sheet in the window

a cake burning in the kitchen and the hallway fills with smoke

sweet bare feet trample the grasses

in springtime we pluck and eat the leaves from the trees

the laughing child lifts his hands to his grandmother’s cigarette grin

girls, driving by a field of poppies, flatten a cat on the pavement

the buzzards above have given the man his name

a neighbor burns her blackberry bushes

the cul de sac fills with smoke

running, the asphalt is hot on sweet bare feet

the trampled grasses no longer lift their hands to catch us

we pluck and eat the leaves until the trees are skeletal bare

tall as a robin my father hangs his naked flanks on another woman

the poppy fields seal our names in their mouths and will not sing

roadside, a buzzard tears the dugs from a flattened cat

it has the wrinkled grin of our grandmothers

in springtime, we wrap the laughing child in a white sheet.

Poet Matthew Williams (he/him/his) is a teacher and poet from Sacramento, CA currently living and working in Brooklyn. He earned an MFA from NYU, an MA from Columbia, and received a Galway Kinnell Memorial Scholarship from the Community of Writers. His poems have appeared in Pangyrus, California Quarterly, Dryland, and as part of the Center for Book Arts Poetry Broadside Series.

Artist Zoe Stanek was born in Nebraska, raised in Western Colorado, and has found her place among the trees in Oregon’s Pacific Northwest. She’s a creator who takes inspiration from landscapes and everyday magic. Her dream is to become a published author. Zoe sells her work online.