by Lauren Camp
Because empty is a sort of confession, weeks candle and hum, and I kite my feet in the little stream. Some afternoons I trail to the underside of grasses with my own viscous hunger to lose three hours in the valley. This is the color of sustenance. Every morning I open the door to a field torqued from neighbors. Wide, flat, it doesn’t do much but truth its terrain. Fog breathes; hay bales peg ground with their oils and dust. Nothing I can see is at harm, everything attached: lake, tree, scrub, sandhills. Abandonment’s glee. Drafts are checked by harrier and horse and the day goes on with its circumstance. Birds mate and rhyme their silly lines and brood. Look at the skin of this distance! The glow is a palindrome I continue to practice. To get here, I climbed faults to a reverse. This day: now, won. A bear is possible. I ogle whatever is marginal, restless. We all disengage.
Lauren Camp is the author of five books, most recently Took House (Tupelo Press, 2020), which Publishers Weekly calls a “stirring, original collection.” Her poems and interviews have appeared in Witness, Poet Lore, The Rumpus, Kenyon Review, The Los Angeles Review and other journals in the US and abroad. Honors include the Dorset Prize and finalist citations for the Arab American Book Award, the Housatonic Book Award and the New Mexico-Arizona Book Award. Her poems have been translated into Mandarin, Turkish, Spanish, and Arabic. www.laurencamp.com.