Issue > Poetry
Kellam Ayres

Kellam Ayres

Kellam Ayres' poems have appeared in the New England Review and The Collagist. She is a graduate of the Warren Wilson M.F.A. Program for Writers and works as a librarian at Middlebury College.

In The Backyard

The dog was so proud. I was drinking tea
on the stone steps and working on my tan.

He ran to me covered in soft fur, a small foot
hanging from the corner of his mouth.
The young rabbits had been placed in such a shallow hole

by their mother. Unwise to leave things
out in the open. It's why I don't write you anymore.
The mother shouldn't have built a nest

with a dog nearby. But here, or next door,
or across the street—what's the difference?
Is it luck, then, that determines everything?

I think that's what I've been meaning to say.
I cleaned up the dog and buried the remains
near the compost pile. I have so little to tell you.

The tea has gone cold. The dog ate four rabbits.
I can't possibly protect my heart from this world.

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