STEVEN KNEPPER is Bruce C. Gottwald, Jr. ’81 Chair for Academic Excellence at Virginia Military Institute and editor of New Verse Review. His poems have appeared in Alabama Literary Review, First Things, Autumn Sky Poetry, Pembroke Magazine, The William and Mary Review, Pennsylvania English, Ekstasis, Grim & Gilded, and other journals.

Abandoned Well Filled In With Stones

My daughters find it in the weeds,

each mounded stone a chalky skull

hand plucked from dirt and millipedes

and loaded on a cart to haul

down to the open maw they feed—

a task to fill a fear inside,

children that leaned, and fell, and died.

With the Boys at the Shade Gap Picnic

A Summer in the 90s

All pray in earnest for clear skies, good weather,

no t-storms, Lord, we’re finally together,

the scattered Gap boys, late summer vacation,

to rove and roughhouse in sugared elation.

We toss rings for machetes, switchblade knives.

The winner’s mom will skin that boy alive.

Class jester Jake takes a five-dollar bet

to slurp a goldfish, wriggling and wet,

while we shoot down the slide on burlap sacks,

consume a stomach’s ache of picnic snacks:

grapenut ice cream, pizza by the slice,

pie, funnel cake, french fries, and cans of ice

cold Mountain Don’t. “B-12,” the bingo call

sings out. The barkers in each stacked-deck stall

cajole, sweet talk, and dare—cacophanize.

The tank-topped carney with the mismatched eyes

is telling us an edifying tale,

R-rated, shows us centerfolds for sale.

The ancient Ferris Wheel grinds past the stars

while lighters flare, joints glow among the cars

where grunge high-schoolers loiter. One girl flirts

with lead guitar in flannel Pearl Jam shirt.

She’s heard his demo tape. I see my crush

leave with her dad to beat the closing rush.

Exploding fireworks gleam on her hair.

Ignoring the red rain of sparks, I stare

at the spangled ponytail, a memory

to savor August weeks until I see

her on eighth grade’s first day. The evening’s slipped

away.  It’s picnic’s end. Tomorrow ripped

ride wristbands drift, all-access turned to trash.

Spent firework tubes wind-rock in beds of ash.