Still Each Windy October Day
by Mary Wehner


A wind-fist, he’d holler, a wasp
flying up from the burn-pile.
Don’t swat, it only brings on retribution.

Uncle Al was a wind-fist, scary old man
flicking cigarette butts off his porch.
His yard smelled of animal bones.

He lived next door, all alone. I dreamt
of a house of my own, small as a wren’s
held lightly in a Burr Oak’s elbow.

Dumb girl, he’d yell, watch the fire,
keep that spittle-finger up high, so we can
both keep the sparks under control.







Copyright 2023 by Red River Review. First Rights Reserved. All other rights revert to the authors.
No work may be reproduced or republished without the express written consent of the author.