NOAH FALCK
 

THE HUNTER'S ROOM 

They spoke casually.

First about the weather,

then about ammunition.
 

The room held a temperature
like a bear in a trap. A cough

shook feathers from the blackbirds

 

hung from the ceiling. She sat silent,

holding tears and staring at a limp-headed goose,

her heart inanimate on her sleeve.

German smoke filled lungs.
The boys' crossbows glinted
beneath a florescent glare.

 

Outside the trees grew into night,
birds flapped their wings like wooden curtains

pushed and pulled from an oncoming storm.


 

CANINE CANCER 

 

Your dog has cancer. He licks the hair off his back, coughs into the fireplace. Seasons go by
in the window. Your dog watches the neighbors throwing frisbee. Your neighbors watch you drink milk
at midnight through the kitchen window. Everybody watches something. You watch your dog at
the fireplace, and then sit by the window. You smell the rain a state away, and wait for its sudden
appearance. You are through being different. Through driving the speed limit or caring in general. 
Your dog has cancer. His head lies still beneath the chimney waiting for snow.