May 2, 2012
Among Pines in Winter
Anticipation leads you deeper,
makes you both eager and wary
the way a lone bird watches the sky
as if it were a mirror
waiting to appear to itself.
Shades of Gray
Swollen clouds rolling in, thunder
complaining to the west.
Cat shadow. Mouse's tail.
Silvery skin of the limp mackerel.
The damp wool coat of dusk.
Dull sheen of an old man's eyes
brimming with gratitude.
The dead woman's sweater
folded on a shelf.
The wolf. The distance.
[an editor's favorite, 2012]
The point at which the cure's no more
effective than the placebo
where all forms of matter revert
to their dreams, your old life
begins to melt
wax dripping into a dish, blood
into a basin
your name a stranger to your lips,
a foreign phrase
with no known translation
your hands transparent and cupped,
unable to grasp or open into a wave.
Antonia Clark works for a medical software company in Vermont and co-administers an online poetry workshop, The Waters. Her poems have appeared in Anderbo, Apparatus, The Cortland Review, Rattle, Softblow, and elsewhere. She loves French picnics and plays French café music on a sparkly purple accordion.
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