Divining
When I hit the hog
it ran a mile
through the thicket
and fell
in a foot of water
—drowned.
You hit it in the head
my daddy said,
the zombie effect.
How the body
moves in death
a dance
and after
the dance
a knife
that grooves
the bloated gut,
gropes
like filthy men.
Believe me,
he continues:
even the innocent
eat, son,
throw themselves
in acts
of rage
and reach
for what the world
will offer them.
Later,
the fire
leaps
like magic
from his
fingers and a full
bottle
passed
like prayer.
I pretend to sip.
Spit to ward
the spirit, divination.
A warmth
the body
turns
to torment,
visions. My
daddy in the dark
wood
asking where his
brother is
and why the lake
won’t cough him
back.
The babies?
He cut
them clean.
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Luke Johnson
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POETRY
Luke Johnson is the author of Quiver (Texas Review Press), a finalist for The Jake Adam York Prize, The Levis Award, The Vassar Miller Prize and the Brittingham. His second book A Slow Indwelling, a call and response with the poet Megan Merchant, is forthcoming from Harbor Editions Fall 2024. You can find more of his work at Kenyon Review, Prairie Schooner, Narrative Magazine, Poetry Northwest and elsewhere. Connect on Twitter at @Lukesrant or through email: [email protected]..
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