April
2010, $13.95 978-0982162552 paper binding
poetry
from "The
Squanicook Eclogues"
October ii
More than novelty crooked its
finger—silent, austere,
Deeper than trees beating their wings or the purblind
stare
Of a black snake circumscribing a sapling’s
wrist.
Father carefully penciled facts, describing rust,
Habitat, genus, disease, but his meticulous chart
Of change didn’t teach me to name the wood’s
mysterious heart. Father, I’m frightened. Why are things
so beautiful and sad?
My voice had dusted moss, like snow, without a
sound.
Stern and tall, he cupped his chin. As if in pain
He paused, then reached into his pocket for a
pen. Don’t ever make things up. Write only
what you see.
Name the woods and you’ll have named the
world, he said.
He tore some pages off and handed me his pad.
I heart the current crimp, mimetic, on the pond,
And larch or beech or birds murmuring over me.
The task
Was how to write birch when I saw the crumbling,
pale tusk
Of a fallen mastodon bridging the path, or ash,
when the air
Was frenzied with the head of a neighbor’s
rain-black mare.
Sycamore waved at me like drowned Ophelia’s
hair.
