Fredrick Zydek is the author of eight collections of poetry and editor for Lone Willow Press. Formerly a professor of creative writing and theology at the University of Nebraska and later at the College of Saint Mary, his work has appeared in The Antioch Review, Cimarron Review, Nimrod, Poetry, Prairie Schooner, and elsewhere. When he’s not writing or editing, he’s a gentleman farmer.
We followed her in, a stray, the fattest & first, the temple cat./ In a niche by the altar she crouches, watches them come: the/ mad parade we’d wanted, this troupe of heretics — the ass,/ alpaca, gyrfalcon — unbroken line of celebrants, creatures ...
Mother comes to me as I’m making honey cake, / measuring out sugar then whipping eggs. / Never mind that Mother left this earth / eighteen months earlier...
I miss things: swooping, diving, passionate voices/ in several African tongues, so far beyond me/ they might as well have beamed from the constellations.
Here’s the river I stepped in more than twice.// I can’t see them but I know the boats/ are going by in the sturdy fog...
And now you explore the hidden pockets and come up/ with a City Guide (in English) you picked up in Amsterdam./ Why did I keep that? Where were we going? But she’s/ not there to answer
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