Poetry: Oxbow -Dan Chelotti


I shuffled down to the flood
edge where a beaver had taken
down an ash. I got on my knees
and got low. A fly crawling
on the white flesh of the tree
didn’t budge. I am only a part
of this world, the beaver said.
I picked up one of the chips
and bit it – still a bit alive,
and scanned the surface
of the water. There was a bird.
White body. Black head.
There was a bobbing tennis ball.
I wish I could say I am a part
of this world, too, I said.
I wish I were a little god,
a tardigrade rolling
on whatever has moisture,

on whatever doesn’t

Dan Chelotti is the author of x (McSweeney’s) and two chapbooks, The Eights (Poetry Society of America) and Compost (Greying Ghost, forthcoming). His poems have appeared in Boston Review, Poetry, Fence, Phantom Limb, and many other journals. He is an Assistant Professor at Elms College 

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