2 Poems by Brent Fisk


Our love
is the baby gone quiet.
We listen for its breathing.
We dare not move.



Blackbirds robbed the cherry tree,
dropped pits from the pink-tinged mimosa.
The red hours of summer crept in.

The banks had come for our houses
when the factories sat idle too long.
A rabbit hutch sat empty as a carport.
Petunias broke the back of a concrete swan
and newspapers yellowed at the ends of drives.

I watch through the window for my father,
a long last day looking for work.
The toys and furniture in a borrowed van.
Our plastic Christmas tree decorated the curb
along with the other things we left behind.
An old television broadcast black news to the lawn.
Planes divide the sky in two
headed for other places we’d never call our own.


Brent Fisk is a writer from Bowling Green, Kentucky with over 300 poems, essays and short stories published so far. He has an B.A. in English Literature, and an M.A. in Creative Writing from WKU.


Elijah Tubbs