Tenderest

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by Cole Barry

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Once in danger, we tend to stay there –

start there: at the altar
of risk, then disrepair. There’s a man.

My neighbor, he crosses
the pond. Frozen over, he hopes it can keep

both his and the dog’s old weight.

It does. Snow fades from his hair.
On the other side –

blue jays and magnolias. Everywhere.

I want to lay next to your expectation.

I want it to grow against me. To hunt,

to haunt. The way you know there’s a squirrel
by how slowly the dog approaches the tree.

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Cole Barry is a writer from Massachusetts and currently a student studying English and creative writing at the University of Vermont. He reads poetry for The Adroit Journal. His work is forthcoming from The Cypress Review. Currently he is attempting to learn Italian.

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