h.m. cotton
Trapping Redtail Hawks Off County 33
We didn’t know they called the cops on us—
said we were tossing duffle bags of drugs
when, really, Joan and I were tossing traps.
I had one loaded up with rats between
my legs when they showed up, guns drawn, pointed
our way. “You’ve got to be shitting me,” they said
when we explained: it’s legal and we’re licensed.
And when one asked if we had any weapons
in the car, Joan cackled and said,
“Well, no, not yet.”
Forecast
Quick, my love, run down to the hollow tree
and bury your scruple in its heart rot.
Then clean the death from under your nails and
tell me which way the root ball twists, and I’ll
charcoal your tarot. Bring home ten persimmons.
I’ll glean their seeds.
On the tenth day of this month, we will split a seed
and read the shaped cutlery of winter’s
warning. You’ll eat one half and I’ll bury
the other. Then give the spares to Mother.
She’ll pip holes and string them for a bridal band.
We will plant our lives in spring.
h.m. cotton
H. M. Cotton is the managing editor of the Birmingham Poetry Review, contributing editor for NELLE, and production manager for both publications. She is the founding director of the SPARK Writing Festival, and her work has appeared in places such as The Greensboro Review, Poetry South, and Smokelong Quarterly, among others. Cotton teaches freshman composition and literature courses at the University of Alabama at Birmingham. When she’s not busy kayaking or finding four-leaf clovers, she’s studying folklore and writing/reading poetry.