Pastoral
Max McDonough
The bay-tide at dusk is a tired muscle.
My little brother and I sword-fight
wiffleball bats in the front yard. On the porch,
our uncles drink and smoke and don’t
speak. They’ve been watching the marsh—
tar-black mud, skeletal reeds stuck
in the dropping bank slope. Our father
is up there too, watching, chalked yellow eyes
like an egret’s, lids pinned open as with sleep-
deprivation, the strained pupils hollowing
deeper. He’s waiting for any small shift
in the saltgrass: wind-drag, a splash, turtle’s head
breaking for air.
My little brother and I sword-fight
wiffleball bats in the front yard. On the porch,
our uncles drink and smoke and don’t
speak. They’ve been watching the marsh—
tar-black mud, skeletal reeds stuck
in the dropping bank slope. Our father
is up there too, watching, chalked yellow eyes
like an egret’s, lids pinned open as with sleep-
deprivation, the strained pupils hollowing
deeper. He’s waiting for any small shift
in the saltgrass: wind-drag, a splash, turtle’s head
breaking for air.
Max McDonough's essays and poetry have appeared in The New York Times, T Magazine, Best New Poets, Food52, AGNI, and elsewhere. You can find him online at maxmcdonough.org.
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