a poem by jack b. bedell
Dusk, Chackbay
The sky purpling over high
cane would be enough,
no need for anything
beyond breeze and open
space to stare into. But
there’s swallows, too,
swirling in the sky above
the stalks in shifts
and murmurs all along
the horizon line. Their dance
pulls left, then right. They fold
into themselves and out
against the darkening sky. Pink,
to purple, to deep blue,
until everything’s black.
Only bug whine and the
ghost of movement above our
heads, proof enough
that what’s there, in that
place, has no need to be
seen for us to know it’s there
twisting above us, and forever.
Jack B. Bedell is Professor of English and Coordinator of Creative Writing at Southeastern Louisiana University where he also edits Louisiana Literature and directs the Louisiana Literature Press. Jack’s work has appeared in HAD, Heavy Feather, Pidgeonholes, The Shore, Moist, Psaltery & Lyre, EcoTheo, Grist and other journals. His work has been selected for inclusion in Best Microfiction and Best Spiritual Literature. His latest collection is Ghost Forest (Mercer University Press, 2024). He served as Louisiana Poet Laureate 2017-2019.