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Tom Johnson
Poetry Editor
POETRY BY PAUL RICE
A Photo of Flagler Chapel Taken from Highway 44


divided in half
by a rough line of low hills

this picture
paints a sky

near white,
then light blue,

then high
sapphire

where it vaults
clear up

and out of
sight.


the earth itself
seems shocked

at all its
autumn.

to the right

a cornfield
hides from crows.

goldenrod
poses in the foreground.

trees shout

as loud a
yellow as they can

and still
remain

inside all
natural law.


one bare
maple

reaches up and
to the left,

scrawling the
word "winter"

with its
scraggly limbs.

it has settled
down

without its
leaves

already as grey

as it knows the
sky will turn,

content to be
partly soil

and partly
cloud,

yet very much
its own agriculture,

its own
weather.


in the distance,
Flagler Chapel

small, white,
angular

in a flurry of
curves.


if you don't
look closely,

you will miss
it altogether

Flower -Handed People

Petroglyphs at the Tsankawi Anasazi Site, New Mexico


out of the
womb, the flower my daughter,

and out of
her two hands,

as fat as
peonies.


and now,

from my girl's
little hand,

a bloom bent
around a pink crayon,

come the
flower-handed people,

their hands
each a circle

with five
petals.

the
flower-handed people smile and wave

out of the
childish paper.


I lift the page

and see behind
it

ash cliffs of
Tsankawi

where the hard
basalt tools of Anasazi mind

have cut the
rock face

into horned
snake and forked fire.


here too are
flower-handed people,

and their
hands

are exactly
those my daughter draws.

the
flower-handed people

wave out of
the stone.


my daughter
climbs the cliff,

her bare feet
firm in a path worn deep

in another
millennium;

with a pink
finger

she traces the
petroglyphs scored in the rock,


and for the
moment they fuse

my girl
child the Ancient Ones,

the flowers,
their hands,

and always the
flower-handed people,


a pattern cut
into the common blood

growing
blossoms, rich blossoms

out of the dry
desert stone.

Love in Horry County


dew,

the wine of
kudzu bloom,

is wet on the
whippoorwill's tongue.


down sand
roads,

the country
young steam the windows,

groan to sow a
crop of seed

to grow the
folks

who groan to
seed the soil anew.


in swamps, the
yin of honeysuckle flower,

yang of grinnel
milt,

soggy mense
of amphibian jelly

load the air

with all the
smelly elements

that pass for
Horry County myrrh.


fly mounts fly.

nightmoth
sucks

the sweetpea's
vulvic frankincense.

bounty of egg
and pod and belly.

the county's
oozing succulence.


nightbroth
swells to fruit,

and then to
creature,

miles from any
court of law,

any preacher.


Paul Rice is professor of English at Coastal Carolina
University, where he specializes in modern and contemporary British and American poetry. His work has won
numerous awards and has appeared in such journals as Poetry, Kansas Quarterly, Poet Lore,
Bitterroot,
The Georgia Review, Negative Capability and Tar River Poetry. He is the 1995 96 recipient of
the poetry fellowship awarded by the S.C. Arts Commission.

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