Hellgrammite Cloud

By GARY METRAS

A cloud drifting over the house tonight
is the shape of an insect, a hellgrammite,
large, long, and singular, crawling through
the waters of dark sky. Its pincers as real
as anything as they search for sustenance,
another bug, a just hatched rainbow trout
wriggling in delicious currents along the belt
of Orion. It will munch its way through
this life, or the one imagined by star gazers
and fly fishermen, who are not so inseparable
from other dreamers in history
or in books. And when that bug of cloud
swam on by, its spiny abdomen of wispy
vapors like gill fringes breathing what is
offered, it left behind a moon as full and
round as a salmon egg, its shining imbued
with the DNA of survival and hope for all
species, insecta, star, and human alike.

Gary Metras is the author of Two Bloods: Fly Fishing Poems, which won the Split Oak Press Poetry Chapbook Award, and the long poem Francis d’Assisi 2008, which was a finalist for the Massachusetts Book Award. His new book of poems, Captive in the Here, is due from Cervena Barva Press. He is the letterpress printer and editor for Adastra Press in Easthampton, Massachusetts.

[Purchase your copy of Issue 09 here.]

From the beginning, The Common has brought you transportive writing and exciting new voices. We are committed to supporting writers and maintaining free, unrestricted access to our website, but we can’t do it without you. Become an integral part of our global community of readers and writers by donating today. No amount is too small. Thank you!

Hellgrammite Cloud

Related Posts

New York City skyline

Lawrence Joseph: New Poems

LAWRENCE JOSEPH
what we do is // precise and limited, according to / the Minister of Defense, // the President / is drawing a line, // the President is drawing / a red line, we don’t want to see  / a major ground assault, the President says, / it’s time for this to end, / for the day after to begin, he says, // overseer of armaments procured

rebecca on a dock at sunset

Late Orison

REBECCA FOUST
You & I will grow old, Love, / we have grown old. But this last chance // in our late decades could be like the Pleiades, winter stars seen by / Sappho, Hesiod & Galileo & now by you & me. // Let us be boring like a hollow drill coring deep into the earth to find / its most secret mineral treasures.

Waiting for the Call I Am

WYATT TOWNLEY
Not the girl / after the party / waiting for boy wonder // Not the couple / after the test / awaiting word // Not the actor / after the callback / for the job that changes everything // Not the mother / on the floor / whose son has gone missing // I am the beloved / and you are the beloved