Fall 1988 • Vol. X No. 4 PoetryOctober 1, 1988 |

Walking Past Midnight

         For Linda Schandelmeier Dusk in the arctic whistled me out of bed. I felt its feathersbrushing by. Moon pink in the west; a whippoorwill's call, a thrush. I saw a rabbit freeze on the road, heard a dog pack howling. I love the motion and the smell of spruce, but this is not a walk that gives much pleasure. My thoughts keep straying back to what you said about your baby's whimpers—like a damaged animal's . . . and when her doctor cut to find the elusive vein, you had to flee the room. Then, as they rushed her down the hall in shock, the pain it gave you fevers in my mind: meningitis. Deep in the bloodstream one black ship's enough. Mild fermentation in the air. This is the light that leaks across the pole at two A.M. in June, a watery light. I dip below and bring up bits of childhood like small fish the great whales herd, and harvest with a blow. And from the other side of life's division, I think of Jeffrey's pride at

Already have an account? Login

Join KR for even more to read.

Register for a free account to read five free pieces a month from our current issue and digital archive.
Register for Free and Read This Piece



Or become a subscriber today and get complete, immediate access to our digital archives at every subscription level.

Read More

Neptune’s Daughter

By John Morgan

         For Linda Schandelmeier Dusk in the arctic whistled me out of bed. I felt its feathersbrushing by. Moon pink in the west; a whippoorwill's call, a thrush. I saw a […]

Subscribe

Your free registration with Kenyon review incudes access to exclusive content, early access to program registration, and more.

Donate

With your support, we’ll continue 
to cultivate talent and publish extraordinary literature from diverse voices around the world.