Rob Carraway


The horses have eaten everything
   green in the three pastures save
the cactus and the mountain cedar.
   There are two dozen oaks with

less than normal bark between the
   barn and the fence. I move with
a purpose as I look for the colt. I
   said I would bring my son with

me, but I left him crying in his
   room. Honest mistakes shouldn't
be punished, but this 12 week old
   is going to pay the price for it. A

silver latch was all it took to keep
   him safe. The breeze picks the
scents from the valley and I start to
   think of wildlife in Texas. I once

found wild honeybees inside the
   carcass of a longhorn. Their signs
were seen for weeks: sipping from
   my coke can, sharing the humming

bird feeder, and generally pollinating
   everything within four square
miles. I searched for them with the
   hopes of driving them away from

the animals. And now I know that
   if I left nature alone, these same
bees could now find their summer
   home in our newest horse.



As if a lazy summer
   breeze could void my
dream of you, the trade
   winds move across my
neck like a lover caressing
   and calling me into an
embrace. I realized long ago
   why sailors named their
ships after their wives or
   lovers: it is the only chance
to have the two together
   in the same place at the
same time and so I start to
   steer west, toward you.

Rob Calloway teaches Debate at Lake Brantley HS and is an adjunct instructor at Seminole Community College in Florida. He is editor of Recycled Quarterly. He has found his work recently in Whiskey Island, Buckle &, Daybreak and Xanadu. He has received the Florence Girvin Award, the Stephen C Wright Poetry Ward, and the Ancient Paths Poetry Award..


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