Sneezing and shiner-eyed in an entire landscape ripped
by wind and today I wrestle
every negative arriving my inbox while finches feast on suet, rubbing
round heads to each other, to glued
seed. March is and did and has just rained and now relentless
tumbling hail. The desert is giddy
with moisture but still claims worst drought. News again
spilled to oil and buzzing. Time grenades
these days a constant, so I hover
over bean dishes, then drive my white car
under hawk-knifing and cloud-shrift. Let me not see
the latest media fog on Facebook. How we fall to ruin
and futility. At the college today,
after talking to that last student who wanted to burn
all his papers, to be someone better, I stopped to see the santos
under glass in the hallway, narrow faces whittled
from cedar, clustered figures clasping their crosses,
mythical. I circled the room, submitting
to exhaustion. I once didn’t know the world
holds harm. Now days line up and I hear
racketing fury. Around me, sun moves in
and I am glad to have someone beloved
and imperfect. My mouth his mouth and no measure
other than heart rate
can wound me. We live among acres with their evidence
of tangling. On the way home, I pass pilgrims
earnest in their toil. The horizon holding good
in front of me. It’s easy to see
the ground fold in and turn purple. Some will find their way
through lacerations. This is only one
truth I’ll never know, and the small fates
of who’s plagued and whose life is saved.
Lauren Camp
Lauren Camp is the author of five books, most recently Took House (Tupelo Press), which Publishers Weekly calls a “stirring, original collection.” Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Poet Lore, Kenyon Review, Prairie Schooner, Beloit Poetry Journal, and Poetry International. Honors include the Dorset Prize and finalist citations for the Arab American Book Award and the North American Book Award. Her poems have been translated into Mandarin, Turkish, Spanish, and Arabic. www.laurencamp.com
