Dog and Moon
If you walk long enough to see your hair turn gray, fending brush from your face through starless nights, note taking to the cadence of seasons, your poetry will reach great heights—that is, if Kelly Shepherd’s modus operandi holds true for others. He is the poetry editor for the Trumpeter Journal of Ecosophy, author of three collections, and teaches on Treaty 6 territory in Edmonton.
WE CHOOSE THE WRONG CREATION STORY
Your clothes smell like campfire. Stars are still visible
over treetops. Throughout the night they turn, then fade.You turn when you hear a movement:
you stand face to face with two spotted fawns.Their faces are close to yours: your entire night
inside the tent is in their eyes.Newborn sun, cottonwood bark, yellowed reeds, dark
river mud in their fur. You know it would be soft to touch.Don’t be afraid of us, we’re always saying to other animals.
A constellation in its infancy:the fawns turn and fade out of sight.
Your coffee cools. You stand on river-smoothed stones.
Reviewed by
Matt Sutherland
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