In the season of torrent
I lost the last hen but gained
a new tangle of blackberry
by following the trail

of clotted red and feathers. This holler
is full of dogs who take, trade
meat for secrets, make boot tracks
of ruin through the wild.

My cellar bursts with onions, rain.
I ration my nights over cans of heat,
watch the ridge for fever people,
their shuffled gait, weary hunger
climbing the bent spine of evening.

I sit still enough to hear it like a hinge:
the folding of my empty hands.