2 poems by Travis Wright


    As a boy I woke

    to the troubled

    breathing one

    morning of a

    lamb on

    the front lawn.

    I could see

    the thing lay

    mangled in

    a coat of dew

    and the dog

    was carving

    into its neck.

    Too early in

    the world for

    so much blood,

    I routed the dog

    into the barn,

    and from the mud

    I lifted the infant

    thing into my

    arms and bore it

    across the gravel

    while it burst

    quietly through

    into a world I’d

    never known.

    An Offense

    I recall Rilke writing

    once in one of his elegies

    that ‘super-abundant

    being’ was welling up

    in his heart, and I read

    it as if it were a sort

    of promissory note,

    enabling him to exist

    better than he did

    before he was born,

    before life, as if he

    had been taught

    somehow to want

    more than what

    only one world

    could offer him.


    Travis Wright is a graduate student in Charlotte, where he lives with

    his wife Emily and their small daughter. He is interested in devices of ambiguity

    and paradox. His work has appeared previously in the Brooklyn Quarterly and

    ARTOS, among others.