Night, wide-brimmed,
settles wild wanderings
in our early
American hearts, fatigue
live chains
loathe to lift themselves
yet imperceptibly intertwined
in our legs again. Let’s lie down
by the stream (she knows
she’s older than her name)
and sink in. The poems
we speak in sleep,
thick with reeds and wet
with recent rains, may camouflage
our foreign origins. The moon,
she is a soft lens.
This poem was published in the summer of 2010 in the 9th issue of Monday Night, an online and print journal of poetry, prose, and other new literature.
2 responses
• David E., Feb 16, 2010 at 4:55 pm
Congrats, Joa! Looking forward to reading your poem “in print.”
• Bruce, Feb 18, 2010 at 8:05 am
Very very cool.