Chiron Alston


Impala

 

Concrete mowed tight in my burb, 

so formal training was impossible.

 

Taught myself how to negotiate tall 

grass. Water was risky. But covered

 

my tracks in the kitchen. No prints 

on the glass. No telling drips.

 

Like in school. My teachers

never netted me, some tried to dart

 

me, but most agreed my hide flashed 

rose gold with every sunward leap.

 

My lyre-shaped horns were mute.


Chiron Alston is a research coordinator for the College of Pharmacy at Oregon State University. He received his MFA in writing from OSU-Cascades. He has two grown daughters and lives in the Portland area with his wife. Before children, he was a professional stage actor who worked on both coasts. After children he became a journeyman printer, a computer systems manager, and a restaurant owner. Then he found a home at U.C. Berkeley assisting scientists with research proposals. Chiron is honored to appear in Quarterly West. He has had other poems appear in The Oakland Review, TIMBER, The Hole in the Head Review, Ramblr Magazine (sic), and Poetry South.