The Works of Linwood Rummney

Linwood Rumney teaches writing in Boston. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Quercus ReviewSuperstition Review, Cold Mountain Review, and Cerise Press, among others.  He is a 2010 recipient of an emerging writers fellowship from the Writers' Room of Boston.

All Poems © Linwood Rummney

Rockland Harbor


From branches of the Wolf River Tree
my older brother calls my name,
but not any name the living
know me by.


As a child I wandered this shore
searching for shells and strange stones.
I gathered fragments of cables
tossed up by the harbor
and tapped a path on the pavement
to telegraph my ellipsis home.


As a child my brother
was too weak to climb trees.


Swinging sticks at brambles
with their various shadows
and leveling water pistols
at the sun with its glistening thorns,
he seemed uniquely capable
of enduring.


It must be something beside
my brother, less than his voice,
making that racket.


If it is an ugly bird’s shadow laughing
at a bare branch, it must know
how moon calls to tide.


f it is the claw
the bird carried from the sand,
it must know it was surrendered
long ago to enable escape.


If it is, after all, an artifact
of my brother’s voice, it must sense
how, with each fragrant breath,
these apples summon the ground.



The Ice Storm


It must be tenderness that sometimes compels
water to press itself so firmly against
the landscape, like the too cold hand set upon
a lover’s belly to startle and amuse.


Trees break from the weight of this embrace.
As in spring, through a trick of light, low-hanging
branches seem to fracture as they dip below
the river’s surface.  But there’s no error


of appearance here.  This season has gone literal.
Something lost all patience with shadows and casts
them out with a clarity that stuns
for its accumulated barrenness.


Mornings, children skate in driveways, parents
gather ice to flush toilets
while the radio catalogs, as though
in war, the losses of the day before:


one trailer has collapsed, killing the sole
inhabitant; another bridge declared
impassable; and half the state
cut off from the power grid. Residents


are advised to boil water, to
ventilate if they use generators,
to stay away from windows and off roads.

Later, there will be interviews with the woman


who gave birth in a car flipped over in a ditch,
the octogenarian who burned
furniture for heat in his living room,
and the fortunate couple who, visiting


friends when the storm began, were not at home
when an ice swell dragged the whole thing into the river.