Bridget Gage-Dixon spends her days cajoling other people’s teenagers to read great books and utilize proper grammar, and her nights cajoling her own teens to pick up after themselves. She lives in a small house in the woods where she can often be found at her computer agonizing over word choice. Her work has appeared in several journals, including Poet Lore, The New York Quarterly, and The Cortland Review.
Hew Paints Crickets
The birds don’t care,
the sheep’s wavering tongues
keep a silent rhythm in the fields.
The cows, intoxicated by their first taste
of spring, look on indifferently.
In the house Emma unstrings
a yard sale guitar, runs arthritic
fingers over warped frets.
The cat, sunning itself on kitchen tile,
ignores the cruel joke of mice traps
tucked below the cabinets.
A pile of unread books
cower on a corner shelf.
Emma imagines herself
in the spotlight while Hew
paints the opaline sky.