The Hawk
One morning, after eating bacon and eggs,
I saw a red-tailed hawk
swipe—such a blur—
a mourning dove
from underneath our feeder.
Carried it in her talons
to the highest branch
of the tallest tree
in our backyard.
I stood at the kitchen window,
my horrified, innocent self,
and called for my husband,
who is more intimate
with such scenes,
to stand beside me.
Holding hands, we watched
the blood and guts,
the dove’s distressingly slow demise,
the hawk’s meticulous satisfaction.
Geographic Atrophy
My husband and I fought
when he pointed out a spot
I missed while washing our new skillet.
I know this is hard for you to see, he said
and then suggested I let him
wash all things with black interiors.
My beautiful blue eyes have betrayed me.
I fear, when I go out in public,
that I have hair on my face I can’t see.
Stains on the front of all my shirts.
Friends on the street are strangers.
Expressions on loved ones’ faces erased.
My retina specialist tells me
small atrophic lesions
in the macula of both eyes
want to spread, get bigger,
at a speed no one can predict,
the way separate clouds
join to make bigger clouds
leaving only small cracks of blue.
Winter Solstice
Bundled up, I watch the man
I am beginning to love
celebrate with fire.
A woman sitting near me
in a low lawn chair rambles
about the rubble in her life,
her powerlessness to heed
the Lord’s Prayer,
to stay away from temptation,
the Adonis who beats peace out of her
not with his fist but with his way
of showing up in the middle of the night
with an insatiable desire to suck.
After I have listened to her
for a long while, I move
away, closer to the man
who continues to feed the fire.
The Champion’s Daughter
Father taught me to bump and run.
Pressed my wrists forward on the club,
told me to close the face, keep an open stance.
Ten or twenty yards from the pin,
this is your best shot, he said.
I felt awkward in an open stance—
off-balance—afraid if I moved
I would lose everything.
But Father was two-time club champ,
and I was his daughter.
The idea is to keep the ball low,
stay in control.
I felt out of control,
pubescent sweat
pooling in my arm pits.
But Father was two-time club champ,
and I was his daughter.
Swing it like a pendulum —
take it back and follow through.
I took the club back too far
came down too hard
left a flapping divot.
Don’t cock your wrists, honey.
Keep them good and stiff.
I mustered up guts,
topped the ball this time,
rolled it way past the pin.
You forgot the bump part.
Try it again.
Head down
and a bucket of balls,
I practiced.
Today I am the champion’s daughter.
Ask anyone.
Bumping and running
is the best part of my game.
How to Shed the Armor
after Jennifer Sweeney
Get rid of the Spanx.
Wear a frilly dress with confidence.
Stop fretting about the bulge.
Strip.
Lie naked in the dandelions,
pained with sensation.
Go back to being a virgin.
Feel the sorrow of losing.
Trudge through the forest
of uprooted trees.
Roll in poison ivy.
Stop scratching.
Sink your teeth
into a moss-covered rock.
Let your jaw relax.
Taste the green.
Nancy Jean Hill is the author of two collections of poetry, Beryllium Diary (Pudding House, 2007, and rereleased by Igneus Press, 2015) and Unholy Ghost (Kelsay Books, 2016). Her poems have also appeared in several literary journals and anthologies. She lives and writes in Exeter, NH and Readfield, ME.