Benison

A hard freeze came through here
            last night. It happens so rarely

in south Louisiana we lose our minds
            a bit trying to keep things

as they are. I stood in my back yard
            past midnight with the dog,

watching my neighbor roam around
            the edges of her property.

She was covering her rose bushes
            with old bath robes and coats

people must have left in her closet.
            By the time she disappeared

around back, she’d left quite a crowd
            hunkered over in her yard

like they were looking for their keys
in the grass or maybe some

four leaf clovers to bless these long
nights with a little grace.

I’m not sure my dog would agree,
            but it was worth every sharp

breath to watch that crowd gather.
            Especially since a couple of them

looked just like family we’d lost
            this year, and the way the wind

jostled, it really seemed like they
            might turn and wave any second.

Jack B. Bedell

Jack B. Bedell is Professor of English and Coordinator of Creative Writing at Southeastern Louisiana University where he also edits Louisiana Literature and directs the Louisiana Literature Press. Jack’s work has appeared in Southern Review, Birmingham Poetry Review, Pidgeonholes, The Shore, Cotton Xenomorph, Okay Donkey, EcoTheo, The Hopper, Terrain, saltfront, and other journals. His latest collection is Color All Maps New (Mercer University Press, 2021). He served as Louisiana Poet Laureate 2017-2019.

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The Ghost Woman