Brent House writes in Cedartown, Georgia, where he lives with his wife, daughter, and newborn son. His poetry has appeared in Colorado Review, Cream City Review, Denver Quarterly, Third Coast, and elsewhere, and he is a contributing editor for The Tusculum Review. Slash Pine Press published his first chapbook, The Saw Year Prophecies.



Augur of Birth

Dark rings burst thick with sweetness as if moon shone down from heaven

still before coming   shadows of limbs break against a pane so thick

memory dulls wounds calling

                          alarm & distress   aggression & defense   flight nest & flock   feeding & pleasure

a suckling bursts through visions of stars & bloods rising among waters aches

among such passages laughter   open fields laid with stone & amazed by flowing

seeping abundant light   gathering like paper against a platen

waiting for the daisy truth   that we must love each other

amidst laden hills rising to feed woods   restful with roots latched to their sustenance.





Augur of Threads

We sowed into the land

claimed us. A family dirt poor

past starvation a black field

we passed among generations

until each acre was drained

& then took work in towns

to requite a tax of inheritance

a blood pulsing with a future

made in the image of wars

where we met distant cousins

we shared screen porch summers

cool soils of a childhood

with first cars of spools

& later gravel roads

we unraveled like threads

away from our bobbin past.







I & the pastor’s sons in an antique Ford
            after a fifth of Everclear & late for evening
            worship   looking through a baptismal falling
            the darkness of a Labrador
            without rein   crossing into a path of light & steel
            blinded until the touch of force & flesh
            caught between the surface & the tread   pouring
            entrails in the wake as the red light of brakes
            disperses in the midst
            ran to the broken body   ground on our knees
            too intimate the suffering & ragged pulse
            & the body of blood demanding
            the twelve gauge of its double aught casings
            & burnt oil washing from the pavement
            in a gift of prism.