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Drew Blanchard

Drew Blanchard holds a BA in Journalism from the University of Iowa and an MFA in poetry from The Ohio State University. He is currently a PhD candidate in English at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee where he has twice been awarded The Academy of American Poets Prize. In January of 2009 he received a university research grant to work with the novelist Iván Thays in Lima, Peru and in the summer of 2010 he was a graduate student scholar at the National University of Ireland, Maynooth, a scholarship provided by the International Association for the Study of Irish Literatures. His writing has appeared in Best New Poets, Notre Dame Review, Guernica / a magazine of art & politics, Blackbird, Meridian and elsewhere. Winter Dogs (Salmon Poetry, 2011) is his debut collection.

Not January Outtake

Drew Blanchard

In April it didn't rain and you

called it blood-month.

You mouthed the words

bone-balloon and I drew

stick figures of zoo animals.

You wrote questions on steamy

bathroom mirrors

about relativity, about time and then

answered your questions

in octagons and absence.

In July you pointed to my stick

figure animals, said that I forgot

faux-rock caves for bears, monkey bars,

designated smoking areas.

I thought of empty corners and unused

spaces in abandoned barns. I said something

about leaving

doors unlocked and the awful

shape of silos.

January now and you

talk of sandstorms, make

lists of animals and plants

you've never touched. I raise

an eyebrow and play,

for three days straight,

happy birthday

on my new piano.

For Your Horse

Drew Blanchard

In Toronto sleep with Batman
nightlights in every dark room;
your nightgown will shine
like the evaporated
sheen on the coat of your
draft horse. Offer mud to everyone
near the jungle gym, offer sage
advice to the swings,
jump ropes, flagpoles
and lawyers. In your endless will
leave almost everything
to yourself, but leave
carrots, shotguns, and history
for your horse. Mornings alone,
eat chocolate cake
wearing nothing
but hairpins.
Picture pumpkin
tornadoes, cornless
summers, become an official
counter for the counties'
annual blade of grass
counting championship.
Leave your homework,
finished, at the bank.
Picture your tombstone
on the Isle of Capri.
Then drive through
town real slow-like,
waving to everyone,
your crooked glasses,
silver hair, shining
in midday sun.

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