Poems by A.E. Hines
Archives: by Issue | by Author Name
Drought
by A.E. Hines
From Canary Summer 2021
AE lives in Oregon at the confluence of the Columbia and Willamette rivers in the shadow of the volcanoes of the Cascade Range.
We stop and reflect on our memories of rain.
How it fell onto greening fields,
how it slipped beneath the earth’s crusty
surfaces, and slithered home to the rivers,
back when there were rivers,
how, wide and frothy, they ran thick
with Coho and Chinook.
How from the ocean, from the acrid depths
they leapt, as if they were our birthright,
onto our gleaming plates,
how we stabbed them with steely forks,
and steamed our foggy mirror atmosphere
with insatiable hunger.
How we waved off all the warnings —
in the end, a fish would need feet
just to make it up a river,
until the rivers became streams
and the streams just a trickle
that ran across the dry ground the way sweat
runs down the back, as if the earth
were a woman, peeling off layers
and hot-flashing her way
past late middle-age.
Drought was first published in I-70 Review, Summer/Fall issue, 2017.
© A.E. Hines
Hike to Warrior Point, Sauvie Island, Oregon
by A.E. Hines
From Canary Summer 2021
The point isn’t to hurry,
but to linger, concealed
at the muddy banks
of the Cascade stream
beneath the archways
of cottonwood and ash,
to watch the egret
standing still above the ripples,
her white-laced twin
shimmering beneath.
The point is to stand still —
to see the great bird,
in small moves, thrust
over and over
the spear of her beak, grateful
for whatever comes up
from the muck.
Even the fallen redwood
is busy here. Half in, half out
of the trembling water,
it feeds decay to wild
licorice ferns and yellow
trillium flowers, makes a home
for the multitude of insects
climbing in and out of the trunk,
its many-fingered limbs
pointing to the sky.
Look here, how this tiny spider
casts her web from the high
branches, how she bridges
such distance, lets herself fall
through the air, sure the tree
will rise up to meet her, that
her thin web will provide.
Previously published in Potomac Review.
© A.E. Hines
Hoyt Arboretum Under Spring Rain
by A.E. Hines
From Canary Spring 2021
The tiny woodpecker
in his little red cap
and black feather cape
might as well be a bishop
shifting through the cedar colonnade.
Head turning left and right,
he hops trunk to trunk,
ringing the bell of every tree.
Here in this city forest,
I am the young boy
at high church, sitting dead center
of the cross-shaped nave,
staring up, dumbstruck
by the misty limbed vaults,
the dripping pine cones
like beatified faces
of saints looking down
from stained glass.
Last summer, every day, rabbits
crossed our path, red-tailed hawks
circled the sky. We thought
we might all be saved. Then
came fall. And winter. Now
life returns but we sit at a distance,
turn our heads, cover our faces,
cough into our sleeves.
What to make of this moment
beneath the arc of living things
when the sun, at last, breaks
the eastern gate of this wide ravine,
the rustle of needles singing
in the breeze, the trickling creek,
the insistent swaying
of pine branches and leaves,
what else but to think of a church
packed full for Easter, packed full
with pine boxes, with bishops and bells,
with the wails of mourners
raining down.
Finalist for Atlanta Review International Poetry Competition, Fall/Winter Issue 2020.
© A.E. Hines
Marine Layer
by A.E. Hines
From Canary Spring 2021
When my time comes to dissolve,
to let go of form, let me be water and air
so I might slide freely across the rough surfaces
of the earth, not stuck in rock, or dirt
or hewn stone.
Let me be mist—rolling across mountaintops
in the bright morning light,
crawling the valleys and crevices,
kissing all that cross my path—
precious or reviled.
Let me circle the earth, a marine layer,
to make the moss and ferns grow,
and wrap my diaphanous arms
around the alder trees,
cloaks of gray-green lichen
climbing up their trunks.
Let me push patiently out to sea,
and spread myself low and thin above the waters.
Let me stare down at my own reflection
and wait for the sun to rise and rise
and lull me into the nothingness
that is everything that was.
First Published in California Quarterly, Volume 43, No. 1, 2017. Nominated for Pushcart Prize.
© A.E. Hines
May Day 2020
by A.E. Hines
From Canary Spring 2021
In hindsight we should
have seen it coming —
our non-stop fuck-wittery,
our ignoring the signs
and her myriad calls
of distress.
Is it any wonder?
Mother Nature saying:
“Go to your rooms!
Like all of you — like now!”
Tell me, what else
could she have done?
Look at the clear skies.
Look at the wild animals
walking our city streets.
At us, back where we started
hiding in caves.
Be still. Be quiet. Mother
is catching her breath.
© A.E. Hines
Sitting Cross-Legged in My Garden at Sunset
by A.E. Hines
From Canary Summer 2021
Only the bee
labors past the light,
making work
of the black-eyed susan
and faded dahlia.
Like a prison chaplain,
in love with beauty and death,
it salutes the solitary blooms
and ushers each flower
into darkness.
Against my body,
I feel the warm earth
and the tiny necrotic creatures
coming up.
Here amid the lovely dying world
I put down my roots.
First Published online in Claudius Speaks, Issue 3, 2017.
© A.E. Hines
To the White Egret I Saw Take Flight on the Eve of My Divorce
by A.E. Hines
From Canary Spring 2021
Everything is connected.
And nothing lasts.
That’s what I am thinking
when you stretch
the S-curve of your neck
and claim the air,
lift breast,
lift wings,
your black talons rising
above blackberry brambles
towing nothing
but wind.
© A.E. Hines