Andrew Hutto is a GTA fellow at the University of Louisville pursuing a master’s degree in English. Recently he was awarded third place in the 2020 Flo Gault Poetry Prize and second place in the second annual Poetry Derby hosted by Churchill Downs. In the summer of 2019, he served as a preliminary judge for the Louisville Literary Arts Writer’s Block fiction prize. Presently he serves on the Pine Row Press editorial board. His work appears or is forthcoming in Thrush Poetry Journal, Eunoia Review, Plum Tree Tavern, Amethyst Review, The Weekly Degree, Cathexis Northwest Press, Barnhouse Journal, After the Pause, Math Magazine, Poet Lore, High-Shelf Press, and Twyckenham Notes.
καὶ λέγουσίν μοι, Δεῖ σε πάλιν προφητεῦσαι ἐπὶ λαοῖς καὶ ἔθνεσιν καὶ γλώσσαις καὶ βασιλεῦσιν πολλοῖς.
Lie – light blue, sicker fever [ought] [not] lavender, tea.
Chill as you know you know, foot stuck on celebration day.
Blossom spring wake. Pull wheel from unstuck to stuck. Still,
inference in the moon, in tea leaves. Seen as a whole of a partial data-set.
Picture the rainstorm as half-full drunk glass half-drunk full glass.
Wind on exposed shoulders, before Mediterranean cliff diving and striped
Sailor shirts, you dirty glanced. Whole brigadiers couldn’t hold off that advance. Prison
isn’t the place for these confessions but they do me well.
To uncork the present /
tennis. Can’t anglicize the way we are as /
a rough pocketed need. You couldn’t wish for a, the A[ open[ as wide oft ocean.
Too far gone as third or fourth of tenth drunk glass, tumblers and tied top rafts.
She reads the Irish like the seas swallow the Scotsman.
In a family they lie down the grouse before the cranberry sauce and thyme tea /
That’s the way to curve around a conversation.
A hyacinth turned over and a fish was still swimming with the hook in its lip.
There’s an athletic look about your new one. Bet you missed the main street parade.
snooker and pound the table.
a tannenbaum /
But it’s still spring-dawn before lisps start infecting everyone on the island. Wrestle me away from the standard.
Mr. O’Flaherty, Mister and Mrs. Winston. Caught looks before coming on board.
Turn shook, its green rolling down the hill. Its ancient history.
Replicate the sing-song in confluence of O’Malley and O’Malley.
Take on the rounds again half-curve, providence in wartime.
You still believe Eusebius.
I bet you did then too.
Because you know I know you know how to curve providence, [the a the].
Like those closed honeymoon French doors and sash weights in this putrid [putrid luxury//.
A, [the], a
Shape beyond shape
Sour upon sour,
shelving away space,
seen through a respite.
And I caught an eye, your eye.
Ducking and salting.
and underdoing it.
Remove windows from the kitchenette.
Doing makeup in the car.
I’d bet the house,
the fields from hill to stream
to hesitate again before seeing
the small sight of shape
in coaxed shape.
Form under form
I’d send something off.
IV. Riviere Chiagnez
Just past Exit 15, before you reach the flea market,
the pastor’s wife will be selling boiled peanuts by the bucket
Look, underneath each shell is a verse from John (no one is quite sure how she does it.)
In the beginning was the Word.
Unless you people see signs and wonders,
you will never believe.
The shells get shucked out windows about a mile north
and land near a stream that will be frozen this time of year.
Foxes will likely dart across the ice, leaving blueberry paw-prints.
Last year, two brothers went to the stream in search of a lost lacrosse ball.
The older ate their peanuts on the shore while the younger put
a hole in the ice
with the heel of his boot.
His sock was damp the whole ride home
and he stayed in bed this past Christmas
with a cough —