David B. Prather
David B. Prather is the author of We Were Birds (Main Street Rag, 2019) and Shouting at an Empty House (Sheila-Na-Gig Editions, 2023). His poetry collection, Bending Light with Bare Hands, is forthcoming from Fernwood Press in 2024. His work has appeared in many publications, including Prairie Schooner, The Comstock Review, Potomac Review, etc. He lives in Parkersburg, WV.
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How I Remember the Breakup
It was over when she said,
You need to up your meds,
not out of concern, but anger.
She may have been right.
Since that moment, I think
of starlings, their habit of flying
in ever-shifting patterns—
blue sky, gray sky, empty sky.
I don’t recall if I drove home
too fast, careless and drifting
on instinct through traffic.
I forgot where I was going.
Last I heard, she was married
and living in Italy. Which is good.
I’ve lived alone a long time.
I’ve watched starlings
peck at half-ripe apples,
make the harvest thin
and unfulfilling. If they wanted,
they’d ravage those branches bare.
Lessons from Appalachia
as my father dragged a scythe to the garden.
He yelled to me to stay
where I was, then raised his weapon,
and swung it downward.
Three times he struck. The snake’s mouth
snapped shut on a blade
of grass. Its body twisted and coiled
near the pole beans.
Its blood spattered those
deep-veined leaves.
I watched my father drag that tangled body
to the weeds that bordered the lawn.
I watched as he kicked the serpent’s head
far from where he thought
I could find it. But I did. Those black eyes
glinted late afternoon light,
which looked like a memory of life.
This was when we lived in the country,
when I learned the names
of every wild thing, and how
a body writhes with agony and desire.
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