Rappahannock Review | Issue 4.2: Kathryn Hunt 02
20991
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Your Sister’s Children Always Disappear by Cathy Ulrich
“Your sister’s children are always disappearing when she closes her eyes….”

The Moons of Jupiter by Tara Isabel Zambrano
“When Ramirez starts moving inside me, I know I’ll be blind…”

Carnival of Death by Dale M. Brumfield
“Public opinion was slow to protest against the imbruting effect of public executions…”

Flame Test by Rochelle Harris
“For the longest time, I thought it was about the marble or the coolness of the water…”

Finding Roots by Kristan Uhlenbrock
“Settling into a window seat, I tuck the begonia cutting into the edge of my handbag…”

Conveyance by Michael Brokos
“Bas-relief your hand on a lamp pole in rain mine tracing the bus schedule…”

Stealing Clay From The Crayola Factory by Grant Clauser
“Bushkill Creek churned past the old plant where my Aunt …”

Reading Hamlet by Kathryn Hunt
“When the others were asleep she sometimes
in the silence…”

Water Children by Kathryn Hunt
“That awful thunk and suddenly the arrival of
the minus hour…”

Processing by Anna Kelley
“Kate didn’t say whether she was there for the gunshot…”

Cataloochee by Kelly Lenox
“In the woods back of Caldwell House, I rest on a mossy root…”

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Kathryn Hunt

Water Children

That awful thunk and suddenly the arrival of
the minus hour, the quick undoing of small beings.
Feathers, beak, bone, its one quick eye
eyeing me. I found it where it had fallen through
the happiness of rain, unsutured from a fickle sky,
a small unraveling. An intemperate sweep of narcissi,

 

unfurling ferns, light splashed up the trunks of firs,
all this glory notwithstanding. The way words
put down on paper disappear to nothing,
tiny glyphs in mud. I left it there to die,
an outcast in its only home, without fear
of me to startle it or take from it its leaving.

 

How like birds, the waiting ones who
hover near, the ones I brush against at night,
their watery world, air-starved or free of air,
almost real. They visit from the bottom of a lake,
a world away, accompany me, who might have
been a mother. The way words appear from

 

nowhere, falling through the branches,
to scent, disturb, and quicken life. Only
later did I return to find the sparrow gone,
wrenched back from rumored sky, the sunny
wind-stirred voices of neighbors on the path
beside the garden. It called from the arbor gate,

 

offered me the sight of it and flew into
a thicket. Strange being, hand-sized throb
I found between the falling and the rising world,
where children bike down gravel paths among
feral cats and woozy bees into the holy-moly
opening of day. That crack. So near and slight, ajar.

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