The Debt
the trees have gone red
and flat against the paper sky
my neighbor stands in his yard
moving leaves around
with a loud noise
somewhere in Montana
a man wearing
a gun lights a cigarette
and leans against
the brick face
of his regular bar
the edge of the forest
moves toward its center
a wolf howls back
to an ambulance
each time it snows
someone dies
each spring
the bodies pop
up like dandelions
in this america
the streets are paved
with pulp of bone
and tongue
due to the debt
owed the dead
their little lawns
get mowed each week
and flat against the paper sky
my neighbor stands in his yard
moving leaves around
with a loud noise
somewhere in Montana
a man wearing
a gun lights a cigarette
and leans against
the brick face
of his regular bar
the edge of the forest
moves toward its center
a wolf howls back
to an ambulance
each time it snows
someone dies
each spring
the bodies pop
up like dandelions
in this america
the streets are paved
with pulp of bone
and tongue
due to the debt
owed the dead
their little lawns
get mowed each week
Derek Annis is a poet from Spokane, Washington, who holds an MFA from Eastern Washington University. Their poems have appeared in The Account, Colorado Review, Crab Creek Review, The Gettysburg Review, The Missouri Review Online, and Spillway, among others.
About “The Debt”: This poem happened after I saw my neighbor across the street using his leaf blower, which I have always found to be an absurd way to clean up leaves. That scene led me to think about how we often see ourselves as separate from nature, and the ways in which we interact with it and try to control it.
About “The Debt”: This poem happened after I saw my neighbor across the street using his leaf blower, which I have always found to be an absurd way to clean up leaves. That scene led me to think about how we often see ourselves as separate from nature, and the ways in which we interact with it and try to control it.