Gus Peterson

Hand Axe

An old farmer walks 
into the archaeology lab 
with it tucked under his arm
as if the gray stone were 
another roll of chicken wire, 
and I envy that gruff way 
of absorbing astonishments, 
want to be more annoyed like him
at having to mend the fence again,  
to shed parts of myself the way 
grazing land sloughs into a creek
after a week of nonstop rain. 
And if I am to linger, let me remain 
sharp as knapped ice age blades, 
or at least undisturbed as a Holstein 
slaking its thirst while something 
misplaced for two or three millennia 
is pulled with a grunt 
like a weed from the ground. 

Back to Issue X…