fred johnson

Fred Johnson grew up in the Midwest and now teaches courses on literature, film, and writing in Spokane, Washington. His poetry has appeared in North American Review, Sugar House Review, Ekstasis, Relief, and other journals.

i yell out at this fool deer in the road

Then the fool deer is down, snowglides clean

to the berm—brown, then black, now gone,

back—in my hazard lights—then police lights—

the spotlight and badge, the still winter night.

         Dad falls as cloudburst from the garage loft,

         hits smooth concrete, shatters a wrist—yells

         outrage to God.

                                               In light conversation

         I would miss cues, talk serious to puzzled faces.

And a key turning, the engine and night snow,

a night deer in the highway, I’ve lost traction

and my head turns, awful slow and awful fast.

         And a key turning, the engine and night snow,

         a night deer in the highway—

                                                        I’ve lost traction

         and unlock heritage, hollering awful obscenities.

And the engine and snow, the terrible calm deer,

an old cuss hitting the floor, and I am all sound,

         the son of a son of a son.

Read Fred’s work and more in Solum Journal Volume V (forthcoming).