Martin Lammon

Wives’ Tales Newlywed mothers hear stories, how killing a spider is bad luck. How daddy longlegs, mouthless, conceals poison in its belly, maybe the death of curious children. Grandmothers-to-be tell tales about neglected doll-babies, chubby fingers spooning husks of flies and cobwebs into their pretty mouths. When I lived in Costa Rica, I saw a

Martin Lammon

Heaven Sent God forbid, my neighbor should croak and be Heaven sent, dragging his yawping dogs with him. God forbid, they should prowl their lazy master’s gold leaf streets and wild gardens hereafter, where resurrected rabbits, fearless, nibble radishes and romaine lettuce. God forbid, my neighbor’s hounds be forced to sniff unscented, sexless air, spin

Martin Lammon

The Animals Are Out Sunday morning, the animals are out: woodpecker, squirrels, my neighbor’s dogs. I hear claws scratching, look up, and damn if those squirrels aren’t racing up and down my sweet gum tree. There goes that pileated pecker, hammering the dead pine. And the dogs? Don’t get me started. They could wake the