American Primitive

A hawk glides in on the music of lawnmowers.

The light’s a sieve,
darkness sifts down.

The wingtips of the hawk
brush the grass
and in a single bound its shadow

soars over the ghosts of television sets
haunting identical houses.

The wingspan of the hawk
cuts a path through the air and disappears
behind night’s door.

The sky is webbed with echoes—
ancient currents
that cross and recross the silence.

It is a map drawn in an unseen spectrum,
a legend of lucid gestures.

Lori Lamothe has published poems in 42opus, The Nervous Breakdown, Goblin Fruit, Seattle Review and Psychic Meatloaf, among other journals. She works as a mentor for the Afghan Women’s Writing Program and blogs at