Poetry

From the archives, Issue 6, 2008–Camille T Dungy on return.

My son defines time—its river, not its measure— / as the way one event changes into another.

and because this is a poem about joy, it too must have a river flowing / from its greedy jaws. i have only learned how to speak about joy / as an offering to a god i will never understand.

For everybody I’m speechless! Damn it, I gotta go get my camera! / For this must be the happiest pod. / For you can hear them saying There she goes again. Big one! Wow! / For you can hear them clapping, laughing.

Sister Maria in third grade homeroom / told us to disregard the rumor / that the San Andreas fault. . . .

In the place where rivers meet / near the temple of forest we once lived / with wavering shadows of darkness, light. . . .

1. Every year the Year of the Weevil, / Dead bees sprinkling the gravel, / Honey and harvest laced with ricin, / Muir Woods blazing, kyrie eleison.

I will feed it to you from my cold hand / all its eggs bobbing and in each, an eye, asleep. . . .