Poetry by Elizabeth Leo
A thin young man carries a green tackle box. In a big, slow way, it’s summer. He’s in a t-shirt with sleeves cut off: a torn leaf. His shadow is younger and trails behind on little legs. The young one carries their poles. They are coming down to the river. The young man pauses to wait for his brother. Through the scent of pine, once, I trailed you like that, down to a high, rushing creek. You didn’t pause to wait. Your boot prints were deep in the dark forest mud, and always ahead of me. I felt like an only child then, calling for you. Here, by the river now, the water is baked brown, the bank is dry under my feet. And under the water, the fish are parched and ache to be adored.
Elizabeth Leo was a poet, teacher, and gardener. She earned degrees from Albright College and West Virginia University. A Philadelphia native, she lived in West Virginia until her death in 2019. Her poems have been published in Radar Poetry, The Boiler, Poet Lore, and Moon City Review. A chapbook of her work titled Bloodroot & Goldenrod is forthcoming.
Arcturus 