Shawn Pittard

I killed a great silver fish, cut him open with a long thin knife. The river carried his heart away. I took his dead eyes home. His red flesh sang to me on the fire I built in my backyard. His taste was the lost memory of my wildness. Behind amber clouds of cedar smoke, Orion drew his bow. A black moon rose from the night’s dark waters, a sliver of its bright face reflecting back into the universe.