Killing Day
by Kendra Aber-Ferri

Like a ghost, the fog moves in the field:
smoothes the black beds of earth.
In the barn, the fly tape swivels above, insects cling
like newsprint, like messages.

Last October the flood tore pumpkins
from vines, they bounded down the river
like severed heads, gathering at the Central Hudson Dam
where we collected them and made them into pies.

All morning I watch the hens busy in the yard,
dark smudges ruffling through the snow, rubied heads
bobbing.  Again I think:
beware happiness.

by Kendra Aber-Ferri

This morning in the garden
turning over soil, I unearthed
a nest of moles.  Their vague bodies
struggled against the light.
Their screamings sifted
through the screen door as I rooted
around for a bucket.  I wondered
what the moles thought of being
turned out so suddenly, like the organs
of someone sacrificed spilled
across the ground in offering.
I thought how rare is life, how startling.
For instance, I thought of how quickly the cancer
advanced through Kale’s body and all the time, him
living, not knowing it was there.


Kendra Aber-Ferri is an MFA student at Sarah Lawrence College.  
She lives in New Paltz, New York, and spends her time hiking and
filling in the holes her dogs dig in her yard.  

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Apple Valley Review:
A Journal of Contemporary

ISSN 1931-3888

Volume 2, Number 2
(Fall 2007)

Copyright © 2007
by Leah Browning, Editor.  

All future rights to material
published in the
Valley Review
are retained
by the individual authors
and artists.