Thursday Night Poetry
Done for a month edition.

This is the reason I decided to teach--because once I put in my last set of grades in the morning, I'm done for a month, except for the reading I'll do to prep for the next term. God I love the academic life.

So tonight's poem is from a dear friend of mine who is currently in the PhD program at the University of Utah. No book yet, but when she gets one, look out, because she's going to set the world aflame. I've never read any other poet like her, a woman who balances formality and experimentalism on a knife's edge. The following poem was published in storySouth (where Amy will soon be published). Enjoy.


At first, whatever drought carries the fiddlebacks
inside from the salt. The old women are speaking about jasmine.

An imagined June. Are telling you what they know
about the night. That the woman

who once held the sky’s hands against her dress whispered
drowning when the sun washed red across the river—

they say she fled from backwoods to bathe in a bowl of fire.
But in truth, she walked slowly with a shawl around her shoulders,

arms folded, her husband watching from a window in the house.

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