Strawberries by Kate Wylie 

we shot three cows


then ran

desperate wolves


brothers through a field of berries


hidden in the bushes

a nest of bunnies


nearby an indifferent mower

and decapitated mother


swirl of green clippings

holographic lightning


the enormous hawk circling overhead

tulips turned away


we knew it was our fault

maybe not this

but something


sunlight’s strand of pearls 

on the edge of the forest


we stole the snow shovel

stowed our shadows in the garage

set fire to the barn


we did those things


two kids riding shoulder-to-shoulder

shotgun in a doorless datsun


then life’s glass tunnel tightened

and our mother disappeared too


the way all parents do


the day she died 

each cloud was milk-white


when we woke

alongside one another


we were only boys


two loose needles 

without a haystack to hide inside


sensing the storm 

before it arrived

About the Poet:

Kate Wylie (she/they) is a poet from St. Louis, Missouri. Wylie serves the community as Literary Obituaries Editor for Northwest Review and Assistant Professor of English at Webster University. Wylie received an M.F.A. from Pacific University in Oregon last year and has been published widely.