Poem by Joseph Bathanti

What’s left of the harvested cotton

are shabby swabs on sticks—

aftermath, something ravenous


having chopped it to bits,

yet left enough to alb the swales.

Snow slips down, its noiseless


noise whitening the white into sheets of linen.

A crow vaning from a spruce tip

calls in crow: Eucharist.



American Arts Quarterly, Spring 2014, Volume 31, Number 2