The Week Before He Moves Away
Brandon Cook
She ripped her new stockings
Running across the cotton fields
Laughing in big gulps, like swigging soda
The twittering,
Like drunken larks tumbling flightless
Across the ground
Almost woke the dogs and cats
But they didn’t
And “almost, but no”
That’s youth’s good luck
Beneath a harvest moon
In summer’s final swoon