Fall 2017, Volume 23

Poetry by Peter T. Donahue

A Tree at Riamede Farm

We were wandering in the orchard,
at the feet of framework
juggernauts—a row of towers
hoisting death like empty
stays above this living relic
of an eighteenth-century
farm. Your brother found a wrack as
hollow as an osprey’s
bone. It couldn’t fell itself. So—
fecund out of spite, its
limbs were apple-packed. A child could
fit inside, play dryad,
climb out singing of the rot of
frith. I didn’t mean to.
But I guess I did.




BIO: Peter T. Donahue teaches creative writing in northern New Jersey, where he lives with his wife and son. Recently, his work has appeared in concīs, The Road Not Taken, The Lyric, and U.S. 1 Worksheets.