After he was diagnosed with cancer, we built him a small cabin under a canopy of firs, breathed a little easier when we saw his truck come rumbling down the road. One year he was too sick to make the trip—his daughter with big hair and glittery nails came instead to gather his few belongings, leaving the wood stove and cook pots for his hunting friends.
After he died, his son came each fall, sometimes bringing a friend or two. With them came fresh-caught tuna, elk steaks, razor clams—small offerings of friendship and appreciation for the privilege of hunting on our land. In return we offered pears and apples, bags of plums and grapes, bouquets of chrysanthemums to take home to their families.
Once a hunter brought his young wife, a beautiful woman my age, a teacher like myself, who had suffered a stroke. She was paralyzed and mute, confined to a wheelchair, needing constant care. I was nervous to meet her, uncertain of what to say, embarrassed by my health and mobility. “She laughs at my jokes,” her husband said, “and talks with her eyes. At least say hello. We won’t stay long.”
With effort she offered her hand in greeting, followed the conversation with her eyes. Her husband gently smoothed her hair, touched her face, rubbed her shoulders and back, always held her hand. He doted on this lovely woman, included her in all topics, even teasing her on occasion. She would nod, eyes sparkling. I was humbled and inspired by her courage, her strength, her grace. They stayed the night in the cabin. A few months later, she died.
He returned to hunt for several more seasons, along with others, but not once since Herman’s first visit was a buck ever bagged, nor a turkey. Perhaps they came for the solitude of the woods and fields, the easy conversations around a bonfire, the laughter.
It’s now been years since hunters walked our land. Herman’s woodland ornament has long been buried in the duff under a pine, the bones scattered by animals, the feathers by wind. Sometimes we sit in his cabin, warmed by a fire and the memories of the stories, the gifts, her hand offered in friendship.
Barnacles sparkle, puffins glint, human practices result in fish-strewn beaches. Like blue-green algae on lakes and ponds, red tide is a naturally occurring phenomenon. Nourished by human waste and warming waters, cyanobacteria multiply in harmful algal blooms (HABs) that release neurotoxins. In a whirl of games, addictions, concussions,swimming bans, Red Tide at Sandy Bend posits a world of creaturely interdependence visceral and intimate.
“Gilliland is a poet of witness and spirituality, grappling with climate devastation while also interrogating world policies and politics.” — Denise Duhamel, Best American Poetry blog
“She brings to her work the rich flavors of the natural world, yet her destination is clearly news of the inner self, its perceptions, its relationships with others. She is not afraid of delight, neither does she shirk the hard tasks of anger, pain, and deep caring.” — Mary Oliver
Featured chapbook poem in December 2025 Philly Poetry Chapbook Review.
Order from The Bodily Press or get a signed copy direct from author.
Find out more at https://marygilliland.com
Shirlee Jellum is a retired English teacher living in the Columbia River Gorge. When not writing, she travels, backpacks, gardens, and makes wine. Her recent work has been published in Gleam, Honeyguide, On the Run, and Flash Fiction.
Maria B. Olujic, Ph.D. is an anthropologist and writer who served as Croatia’s Deputy Minister of Science and Technology during the bloody dissolution of Yugoslavia. Her memoir-in-progress, Fields of Lavender, Rivers of Fire: A Memoir of War, Survival, and the Search for Peace, weaves her experiences of war and displacement, focusing on the roles of women during the conflict, both those in power and those who were victims. She lives in the Bay Area.