A Poem by D. M. Spratley
Author: Poetry Editor
September 22, 2019
This week, a poem by D. M. Spratley.
Bitterroot, Bloodroot, Dogtooth, Rue
My mother dies, and time
buckles underneath me.
By next spring, even the dog
has forgotten how to hike, her nose
intent on discovering other dogs
that have come before her.
The forest sweeps in front
of her unrequested, an afterthought
borne on mud. The season
has grown impatient with us, and pushes
against our feet. Heel, I say
but the dog will not, straining
in her harness,
nose already blooming
brown with dirt.
D. M. SPRATLEY is a writer and racial equity educator who lives in North Carolina. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Poetry, 32 Poems, and Shenandoah, among other journals. Find her online at dmspratley.com.