is about in the back corner of the garden
where the wind lulls the Forsythia to sleep
then wakes it again.
is there under the brick
in the pathway knocked
loose like a tooth.
is threading iron in the cream
we take down inside us.
is sitting, a dark shape in the sun—
a clause in the peace of the Lord
we pass, half-hearted.
is sobbing in the river; a drowned
coherence that keeps on rising.
was not up early enough to catch
any heart-muscle contracting
or flurry exploding—the mud
and gut of the struggle and dance.
But new dust flouring the fields
brought him soft scrawl, a calligraphy
in no script but its stubborn own.
I’ve known those claws, sharp and hooked.
When they tear, they bring bright
right to the surface,
reminding a thing of rivers
it used to carry without thought.
|Jenn Blair is from Yakima, Washington. Currently, she is a Park Hall Fellow at the University of Georgia, where she teaches British literature. She has published in The
Tusculum Review, Copper Nickel, and Innisfree Poetry Journal, among others. Her chapbook of
poems, titled, All Things are Ordered, is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press.
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