When he uncovers fiddleheads by the spring, why does he always think of that first sight of her thigh in the peach-colored dress, of his hand’s searching moss with its red-gold stamens, the spring in that arid landscape like something from Canaan under his tongue? — Mary Rose O’Reilley, from “The Abandoned Farm,” Poetry (2007)… Continue reading Mary Rose O’Reilley
Isn’t it sad that some loves are better on paper? — Lara Egger, from “Because There’s No Emoji for Memory,” Salt Hill (no. 41, 2019)
My sparrow, fly away if you have to But know that I am coming. I am low in the grass. I am burning With patience. I am every song. — Dan Chelotti, from “My Sparrow,” Poetry (June 2014)
there’s always a little joy, and even beauty lies close at hand, beneath the bark of every hour, in the quiet heart of concentration, and another person hides in each of us — universal, strong, invincible. — Adam Zagajewski, from “Three Angels,” Pangolin House, Spring 2014. Translated by Clare Cavanagh
Why is it we love so fully what has washed up on the beaches of our hearts, those lost messages, lost friends, the daylight stars we never get to see? Bad luck never takes a vacation, my friend once wrote. It lies there among the broken shells and stones we collect, a story he would… Continue reading Richard Jackson
There’s too little time left to measure the space between us for that was long ago—that time—so just lie under the dark blue quilt and put the fat pillows with the blue slips on the great windowsill so we can look over them and down to the small figures hurrying by in total silence and… Continue reading Gerald Stern
The days are my consolation. I take one home each night and put it in the case beside my bed and watch it fade in the dark, no matter how shiny it seems at first, no matter how high it stands behind the glass. I keep a few polished for memory’s sake, but even they… Continue reading Chard deNiord
