Pastoral Resistance

By ROB SPILLMAN

Dogs in Meadow
Deer in Grass


Catskill, New York

A fair friend resists the pastoral,
insisting glacier collapse fire tornado sixth
extinction privilege the privilege of writing
about a peaceful wood walk. Walking in the
woods, I resist as well, as well. A sudden freeze
after the first hopeful warmth has silenced
the peepers. The resident red-shouldered hawks
have ripped apart another guinea fowl, its speckled
black and white feathers in a neat circle
in the bare winter wheat field, no trace
of blood or body. The dog is bored by feathers,
dashes after gleaning robins and burrowing
field mice, far from the Russian bus shelter
where she was found, far from her Brooklyn
youth. We’ve fled together, to the pastoral, to
walk the woods and fields, to plant blight-
resistant American Chestnuts and Catskill-
native flowers and ferns. If we burn or
are swept away, we will do so with muddy
paws, witnessing until the last pastoral page. 

 

 

Rob Spillman co-founded and edited Tin House Magazine from 1999 to 2019 and is the author of the memoir All Tomorrow’s Parties from Grove Press.

Pastoral Resistance

Related Posts

Tomato on tomato plant

A Tomato Behind a Glass Cage

SARAH WU
Through the glass, we watch her pour a pale yellow substance from a small white bucket. It splashes against spots of red tomatoes. She’s using urine! the alumna says excitedly. I wonder at how easily this old woman in the glass cage has become foreign. How ancient, and how strange.

Dispatches from Mullai Nilam, Marutha Nilam, and Neithal Nilam

VIJAYALAKSHMI
There is fire everywhere, / both inside and outside. / Unaware of the intensity of the fire, / they maintain silence / like the serenity of a corpse. / From the burning fire / bursts out a waterfall tainted in red. / All over the shores have bloomed / the flaming lilies of motherhood.

When I Go to Chicago

SHELLEY STENHOUSE
When I Go to Chicago, things break. The last time, on the last day, the pipes in the kitchen burst and flooded my parents’ blonde wood floor. When I’m up in that 87th floor apartment, I look at the sky’s blank expression. I keep the little square office window open for the sliver of nature.