three poems

by James Callan

Skeleton Seeds

Verglas on the veranda

Rocking chair

Wind chimes like cavern calcite

Nostril hairs fused in clumps

Crystallized

every inward breath

Cigarette smoke

Vaporous

like the specter of a murdered child

Hot coffee

clamped by nylon thighs

going cold

Whiskey inside

December sky a contusion of mauve

Golden claw and molten eye

the hawk forsakes her idle perch

Douglas fir

Silent snowfall

Fate’s a bitch for the pheasant

plucking ragweed skeleton seeds

When wind chimes touch

icicles fall

Pine cones pock a lunar landscape

A huntress diving

embedding her talons

spreading her mantle on the reddening snow.

Sky Father

The fields come alive at dusk, their drab pallor infused with ember red to mimic the fox. Our bows can send arrows 300 meters across the plain, but hitting a fox at long range would take a miracle bestowed by Tengri, Lord of the Sky. We draw and fire to flush out our quarry. We raise our arms that bear our birds of prey. Golden eagles take flight, drawn to the sun-drenched flanks of moving targets—the long, erratic shadows that they cast. Our birds can see a fox’s ear twitch from three miles away. What use do we have for bows when we have eagles, winged warriors who soar beside Tengri?

Fox in hand, we return to our gers, our transportable homes which are shaped like a mother’s breast, and just as warm. Under yak hide and felt lining, we settle next to fires fueled by dung—horse, sheep, and owl. The fox remains beautiful after death, even though she lies limp like wet trousers hung to dry. Her face is smiling as we open her up and peel back her luxuriant pelt. Inside, under animal skin stretched taut like a drum, the stars glimmer unseen, perfectly in rhythm with Tengri’s eternal song. The moon pries its long finger through the narrow gap in the lining, entering the ger. It strokes the fox fur, which, without the sun, is no longer red, but colorless, like rock.

At dawn, Sky Father flaunts his immaculate robes, his bright blue deel broken only by his bone-white sul, a band of cloud from east to west. Our own clothes are earth-toned, the color of the horses we ride, the hides we rely on, and the dung we use to keep us warm. Our golden eagle cuts the sky, glinting like amber in the sun. She sees a fox, its ear twitching miles away. We squint against the splendor of Tengri. We lower our hats the color of rock, the fox fur shading our smiling eyes.

The Paleontologist Finds Love

I worship the dust that is your tangled hide, your mendicant robes sharing the shades of the dunes that claimed you. Your spirit flew skyward. Your body returned to the Earth, sleeping, waiting, disintegrating over eons, all but your breathtaking bones.

I trace your spine with the lightest of brushes—my own spine tingles. My eyes light up with your life, the evidence of what’s left of it. There are 206 bones in the human body. When they are shattered, it’s hard to tally.

He loves me, he loves me not.

I’m fond of your fossilized charm, the juxtaposition of your sacrum beside your coccyx, your limbs compressed by layers of shale. I admire the imprint of your dress, wedged among the folds of unknown mountain tonnage, imagining the print on your dress when you were still alive. Was it flowers, or polka dots? Tartan or merely tar?

Smile for me, sultry beast.

Wildebeest—or is that what you were wearing when you met your maker? Hoof and horn. Mandibles askew, warped and utterly shattered.

Open up, old man. Let’s see your teeth. Let’s see your agate browns. Don’t make me beg on my knees among the clay. Smile for me, bygone brand of man. Don’t make me raise my dental pick or awl.

Photo of James Callan

BIO: James Callan lives and writes in Aotearoa (New Zealand). His fiction has appeared in Apocalypse Confidential, BULL, Bottle Rocket, Reckon Review, Mystery Tribune, and elsewhere. His collection, Those Who Remain Quiet, is available from Anxiety Press.