Bigfoot’s Rabbi

 

As I staked my claim

in the early morning

mouse belly fog

the hound dogs crooned

their redbone lullabies

up the swale, sensing

my arrival on the ridge.

 

The surrounding spires

of the fir trees rose

through the fingers

of the moss bound white

oaks. Thickets of thorn vine

poison oak and clench weed

shimmied in the shadows.

 

The locals soon could see

I came from people severed

from society. Eaters

of minced fish and manna.

But little did they suspect  

 

I sat at Sasquatch’s table

for the Passover Seder

and passed him the horse

radish. We drank

sweet red wine, stroked

our beards and spoke

of how hard it is

to raise children.

 

Published in BIGFOOT COUNTRY