I found their shells
plastic empty red
and a right of way warning
rusted waist-high in vines
I could not pronounce PETROLEUM
I was scared not of the pipeline
but of the sign
I found an atlas in brick cities
nothing had been replaced
nothing was intact
I trusted my father’s moustache
and my mother with everything else
until the cold fled and the geese stayed
and places came from movies just like this one
and a dog named Molson ran away with the bird
and took our windy cries for cheering
I have my own way of standing half astride today
you must not think it’s a thing to get over
if so then so is everything
some other time
some other game
we would bring enough
for everyone again
Now it’s meanwhile
tall ships crowd the inbound tide
indoor fireworks are due
we have been in our fumes two centuries
I am certain
I was present
and absent when spars collided
and I am waiting for the sails
I caught this afternoon
Issue Three | May 2013
We bring you Issue Three of Sundog Lit. This is a really great issue, and we’re so proud…
I’m so pleased to have a poem, "Sugaring," in this beautiful issue:
In one state I was born knowing how to nest
potted in small duties
in a crooked porch town
I grew buttoned against the wind
No one said times were good, but words
got us a long way. Some said out east,
some back east, and rightly or not we guessed
which skies they were pointed toward and which
they assumed we, too, ignored. Wonder was
at all times preferable—had you ever seen
such silent contrails? Something
in the sense of a late decade.
You could reach all the back shelves
with years to spare. Most likely
tastes were as canned as they seem now
but they were the latest we had.
Daylight held hours after the sun.
We turned off TVs. Someone had a Frisbee and
someone sparklers, and the same kids cycled past
until only their voices showed in the dark—
no sound of traffic, and I thought how it would be
if in fact everyone was where they were going.
photo: Doug Wilson, "Smog Covers Tacoma, Obscuring the Foothills Below Mount Rainier, 6/1973" | Documerica Project
I cannot say what anyone wore. Were skirts
about the knee? Was it the year of crochet
or of failed pants no matter how we belted?
I remember we had squirrels. The weed killer men
arrived while we slept. You rushed undressed
and though we were soon hidden
the way you stormed back to me I wondered
who had seen you and what they would say
if I knew who to ask. Later that week or the next
you said: where did the squirrels go?
We have the worst answers.
In the passenger seat of a Honda Civic
at dire speed over half New Jersey
I felt the weather compel our flight while NPR
considered all things except what we were thinking.
On this coast houses are clearly references.
One winter was for a long while like the last.
No one meant to vacuum away the old calendar.
Still, by the time I wanted the habit
it was gone. Now every method shifts
with practice. The best chords are suspended.
They sustain the absence of a root. The tone
of this moment takes seven or eight dubs. Each replay,
the note I want seems like the first note.
Found poetry from @nytimes_ebooks:
The devil is taking down one person per day
We would have country singers’ buses pulling up outside
Like those sign-covered casinos along the reading room
Greet visitors with a grid of the better
The question is for producing change
It also dies by that illusion
And the moxie of turning government
What remains to be stark
I still sometimes find myself spoken
Before they felt that they did
Were you because you
The lake responded exactly
We head home: through the gloss of rain or weight
of snow, or the plum blush of dusk, but always—home,
always under one sky, our sky. And always one moon
like a silent drum tapping on every rooftop
and every window, of one country—all of us—
facing the stars
hope—a new constellation
waiting for us to map it,
waiting for us to name it—together
I have a poem in Jellyfish 7.0:
Keep only jewels you can wear at one time even Cary Grant
needed a glass before he got Grace Kelly the trick is knowing
what you get for what you can get
Fantastic poems by Anne Marie Rooney, Rob MacDonald, Lesley Yalen, Laurie Sanborn Young, Leora Fridman, and others.