Cold Air Warm Father

I am whittling wood by a fire. I figure I have all night. I have more than that.
A carved Indian stares at me with dead eyes. I stare back at him for hours.
He whispers my name. I whisper, what? He whispers my name. I whisper, what?
Take your death elsewhere Indian.
My piece of bark looks like my mother.
I continue scraping.
My feet are buried below the shavings.
I have been whittling for years. This stick used to be a tree.
People ask me if my knife does not dull.
I say it only gets sharper.
That with a head like this I can slice the day from night.
I hold them in my hands. They are the fruits of this land.
With no food people say my bones are showing.
I am only getting sharper.
I am coming onto something.
He whispers my name.
Take your death elsewhere Indian.
I am only getting sharper.

Sit With Me

i love being the little girl at the wedding.
frosting on my face,
i carry your ring and avoid the punch.
twirling like a snow storm on the dance floor,
i am the ballerina who grew up in your heart.

James Frederick lives in Athens, Georgia. By day he flees from his blues, but at night he writes. Then the blues are tall and more orange.

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