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Burning the Bunch Grass

Burning the Bunch Grass 1173036 ATR0010.1177/00033286231173036Anglican Theological Review other2023 Poetry 227 How would I have known except my neighbor saw it untended, tangled, overgrown, and said, Simple, set a match to it come spring. Now, each March, I hack back the thin stalks—hollow with ends fanning into feathery splays too high below the power line. I hold a hose, light an edge, and a pack of flames devours last year’s brittle grass. Snarls of smoke fling off, the bones exposed, and what’s left but a chest of charred sticks dressed in ash-tussled scruff. Small sprouts wave in the wind, accustomed to bending, at last unsmothered. Unkempt, I repent my past neglect, given free reign and fire to burn the dead down to green. JOY MOORE Joy Moore lives in Tennessee where, for the last fifteen years, she has taught undergraduate writ- ing and interdisciplinary courses, designed and managed two coffee shops, and led a music and arts venue. Her poems have appeared in the Best Spiritual Literature Anthology and several journals as 32 Poems, Hunger Mountain, The Greensboro Review, and Prairie Schooner, for which she won The Glenna Luschei Award. http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Anglican Theological Review SAGE

Burning the Bunch Grass

Moore, Joy
Anglican Theological Review , Volume 105 (2): 1 – May 1, 2023
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Publisher
SAGE
Copyright
© The Author(s) 2023
ISSN
0003-3286
eISSN
2163-6214
DOI
10.1177/00033286231173036
Publisher site
See Article on Publisher Site

Abstract

1173036 ATR0010.1177/00033286231173036Anglican Theological Review other2023 Poetry 227 How would I have known except my neighbor saw it untended, tangled, overgrown, and said, Simple, set a match to it come spring. Now, each March, I hack back the thin stalks—hollow with ends fanning into feathery splays too high below the power line. I hold a hose, light an edge, and a pack of flames devours last year’s brittle grass. Snarls of smoke fling off, the bones exposed, and what’s left but a chest of charred sticks dressed in ash-tussled scruff. Small sprouts wave in the wind, accustomed to bending, at last unsmothered. Unkempt, I repent my past neglect, given free reign and fire to burn the dead down to green. JOY MOORE Joy Moore lives in Tennessee where, for the last fifteen years, she has taught undergraduate writ- ing and interdisciplinary courses, designed and managed two coffee shops, and led a music and arts venue. Her poems have appeared in the Best Spiritual Literature Anthology and several journals as 32 Poems, Hunger Mountain, The Greensboro Review, and Prairie Schooner, for which she won The Glenna Luschei Award.

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Anglican Theological Review – SAGE

Published: May 1, 2023

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