Rebecca Foust


Write only what you absolutely do not know, not what you’re merely 
not sure of.—Stephen Dunn
Null. All. What’s after death or before. Where my old dog is now, my mother, my father—not the ashes clumped in a box, but the mad licking and tail-beating and the gaze, dense with devotion, of iris-less eyes. My father’s delight in anything wingless or red, why my mother left that night, barefoot and worried she’d miss it, the first landfall migration of geese in raft after dark raft aloft in a gray sky, an acre of feather and beak that boiled and blotted out the dark lake, and no sound but the high cry.