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| Joanna Klink [University of Montana] |
Joanna Klink
in Harvard Review, 2012:
Aubade
What
is one hour
that
I should care
that
I should lose him again.
We
are each of us faraway
animals,
freestanding and
steadfastly
at white heat in our
inner
ardors, midnight’s
fretted
distress under a
moon.
Lechuza,
for hours
trunk-rapt
in stillness, raises its
loaded
wings, shedding
nacre
over the lake.
You
saw it too, air
and
silver, a current of
muscle
curving through
space
in its wake, blood
underflown
in your ribs.
How
to explain it never
happened
and was this real,
screen-own
or simple
barn,
one of the great
shadows
moving inside
wind,
wars loves disease and
chances,
the malaise of
ingratitude,
arsenal of material
energies
and medicine
to
the stricken, all striving-
until-death
crushed and
laced
again into patterns of
sound,
road-dusted or sand-
marshed,
and the long slow
summer
of creek water,
summer
of high old trees
moving
the light — all of it
in
the quick flint-struck
fire
we trade the next
day
in our eyes.
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