POEMS
by
Samn Stockwell
Magma
For a while it was stylish to get so close
to the camera, cheek and nose filled
the frame; even if you weren’t angry,
the pores looked volcanic. That is how close
she is to the waitress, jaw jutting
over her plate of eggs.
She erupts while the waitress, head down,
serves coffee to the next patron, unconcerned
diners stirring extra cream in their coffee.
The woman is wearing jeans and a striped shirt
and flings her hands out to her sides
in the universal sign of frustration,
her hands swollen
in the universal sign of arthritis.
Look at the writer distracted by a window,
the woman distracted from the pain in her knuckles
by her bleak choices, and the diners
celebrating their ongoingness, which even
the waitress feels, even the squirrels the writer
is distracted by notice
Magma
For a while it was stylish to get so close
to the camera, cheek and nose filled
the frame; even if you weren’t angry,
the pores looked volcanic. That is how close
she is to the waitress, jaw jutting
over her plate of eggs.
She erupts while the waitress, head down,
serves coffee to the next patron, unconcerned
diners stirring extra cream in their coffee.
The woman is wearing jeans and a striped shirt
and flings her hands out to her sides
in the universal sign of frustration,
her hands swollen
in the universal sign of arthritis.
Look at the writer distracted by a window,
the woman distracted from the pain in her knuckles
by her bleak choices, and the diners
celebrating their ongoingness, which even
the waitress feels, even the squirrels the writer
is distracted by notice
portrait, post-captivity
He woke, his face littered
with the sound of the train.
Hurrying down an escalator,
he didn’t recognize his reflection
or posture, something alien
in the way the head tilts and tics.
He weaved across an unremembered past
to the cold canyon of his car,
a sheaf of forms in his hands.
portrait, post-captivity
He woke, his face littered
with the sound of the train.
Hurrying down an escalator,
he didn’t recognize his reflection
or posture, something alien
in the way the head tilts and tics.
He weaved across an unremembered past
to the cold canyon of his car,
a sheaf of forms in his hands.
elm hill
A tatting of even lawn knits 17
ranch houses, 12 condominiums,
and 10 barking dogs
The field at the end is circled
by a mud track churned by ATVs,
the brook a splash between two
banks of milkweed and Indian Paintbrush
Here my dog bathes
serene, aloof,
after rousting wild turkeys
People come to the field,
scraping at their emotions.
The brook courses around
them. For me, the field
is the last link to something I love.
What is home, that it could be so small?
byway
I was walking down the unknown road of a holiday destination
thinking why hadn’t we traveled this way, and earlier at the restaurant
I told the waiter we didn’t need the highchair, now beyond childbearing and
why hadn’t we seen this lake before with its quiet fishing boats and swimmers?
Why was I worried someone would mistake me for who I am?
Last night I had a dream we were sitting at the table of the future
planning for death and other accompaniments. A large screen TV
played a newer drama and in hearing it, we knew everything
about the present would be extinguished but the rail bed –
even the shaking of rugs and someone drying silver – what a thing
to miss, the ordering of spoons and forks in a drawer –
elm hill
A tatting of even lawn knits 17
ranch houses, 12 condominiums,
and 10 barking dogs
The field at the end is circled
by a mud track churned by ATVs,
the brook a splash between two
banks of milkweed and Indian Paintbrush
Here my dog bathes
serene, aloof,
after rousting wild turkeys
People come to the field,
scraping at their emotions.
The brook courses around
them. For me, the field
is the last link to something I love.
What is home, that it could be so small?
byway
I was walking down the unknown road of a holiday destination
thinking why hadn’t we traveled this way, and earlier at the restaurant
I told the waiter we didn’t need the highchair, now beyond childbearing and
why hadn’t we seen this lake before with its quiet fishing boats and swimmers?
Why was I worried someone would mistake me for who I am?
Last night I had a dream we were sitting at the table of the future
planning for death and other accompaniments. A large screen TV
played a newer drama and in hearing it, we knew everything
about the present would be extinguished but the rail bed –
even the shaking of rugs and someone drying silver – what a thing
to miss, the ordering of spoons and forks in a drawer –
Samn Stockwell has published in Agni, Ploughshares, and the New Yorker, among others. Her two books, Theater of Animals and Recital, won the National Poetry Series (USA) and the Editor’s Prize at Elixir, respectively. In July 23, her new book, Musical Figures, will be published by 30 West. Recent poems are in On the Seawall & Sugar House Review and are forthcoming in Plume and others.