[Another poem from Brittany Newmark—fantastic, & a privilege to post]
Easy now, all I am going to do is talk
And not even say
or the other that
The story does not end at the
Or the journey on a snowy evening alongside a vacant lot
in a city full of promise.
No doubt, I have read too much
into our lives,
the lives of our family,
the tables we gather around.
The light accumulates and settles into the recesses of the room
And never exposes us to one another.
Friends, I am sorry I can’t stay
It is late.
Where have I been?
To Indiana and New Hampshire
Texas, Virginia twice
Each place a promise
And lived well enough to call it a life
A glow aloft
I’ve carried infants in my gut,
my heart still asleep
on my back
And been completely fulfilled by a fat fist no bigger than a baked roll
And clenched tight, alive.
A simple observation:
sunflowers growing in an open field always face east
And serve sometimes as the only compass
for the especially impoverished and misdirected.
The ones that notice such things
as the tilt of a thousand flowers.
(as well as I,
before I had the words for it you knew)
a water stain
and that in those future beds of straw & hair every kiss will taste like ash.
I promise to no longer be fool-hearted
I promise to no longer mistake the swing of
a girl’s hips
for some hint of melancholy
I promise to linger long enough to be taken