I heard the impact in the sodden ground and was afraid I was not alone in the night. And then I wished I, alone, had heard something fantastic, black bear dislodging nests in high-crowned trees or the thwack on trunk by antlers that promises more deer. I was awake with what I’d never see, curled in the pericarp of sleigh bed and duvet. In the morning a spill of green walnuts snapped and dropped overnight. From Juglans, a tree named for Jupiter, those logged, hefty ovates giving off bright citrus spice but the vivid green is yielding--scale softening the globe. Unintended fruit. Do not consume. What I hold is unripe.
Kelleen Zubick's poetry has appeared in a number of journals including Agni Online, Barrow Street, december, Dogwood, the Kenyon Review, the Mississippi Review, and Willow Springs. She received an MFA in Creative Writing from Arizona State University and has been awarded artist residencies from the Anderson Center and from the Kimmel Harding Nelson Center for the Arts. Kelleen lives in North Carolina and works for the national No Kid Hungry campaign.
