John C. Hall

A Feast Rightly Earned

with a handful
of rolling shells
and a shotgun,
cousin david
led me along
the hills and valleys
of his countryside.

he missed every shot,
and as the last shell
whizzed by the perched crow
a nearby herd of cattle
chased after the thunder
in our direction.

we leapt and piroutted
through the soiree of cowpies,
and as he dove over the
barbed wire fence,
i slid under like
so many second base hitters.

we walked the long walk
back home after that,
no crow, no rabbit, no buck,
but returned with a bounty
much heavier than
flesh.

Ghost Lady

the children all call her
the ghost lady.

she is whiter than any clean bone
and walks between
the graves in
the cemetery.

the children follow her
and watch and
wonder and
whisper.

will she sink back into
one of the graves?

i follow her too,
like the whispers,

lost, laughing, sighing,
behind the

John C. Hall is, until now, a previously unpublished writer living in Port Hueneme, California, where he is a student majoring in journalism and creative writing. contact