Copyright © 2019, Otis Nebula Press. All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2019, Otis Nebula Press. All rights reserved.
In Unfamiliar Fields
I was there on a dark night, stripping
saplings, wearing clothes blacker than the air
beneath the low clouds keeping me from
understanding the stars. Instead, I watched
what my hands were doing, as if I
floated above myself, so intent was
I below I could not see my face,
did not know what kind of light was in my
eyes, whether it gathered the compressed
evening where even sounds did not travel
or came from within, thus should have been
feared as I plucked the leaves in fistfuls. There
was a drive-in. I rode a bike, found
myself in unfamiliar fields become
brambles and iron weed. I wanted
to wash, could smell a stream but did not know
its direction, could not say how I
had arrived, what exactly had happened,
if I was bleeding, what was his name.
What Shall I Put In My Bucket
What shall I put in my bucket, you said,
for we saw so much to choose from that spring:
wet, round stones; smooth driftwood dry as bone; an
upturned oyster shell, nacre still gleaming;
a bleached crab claw, pincher yet intact on
a day we have never forgotten, no
matter estrangements, our transitory
disregarding, for we’re the only two
who share this memory and so should not
stray far from the peace of an ocean by
relinquishing to resentments that are
temporary while that day gleams always
with its cloudless sun and perfect wind, the
cried of the gulls encouraging in us the
kind of laughter that occurs only when
one is jumping in the waves of a body
too large to see the other side and thus
becomes all that is possible yet for
us to do-even now-once we realize
till we die, we will always be children.
When Late is Never
I unrolled my sleeves, one after the other,
for I needed something to do with my hands,
waiting for the mood to shift, for whatever
it was to pass, moonlight washing all over
the porch, making the wide Adirondack chairs
and picnic tables appear from another
world, glowing as if any moment they would
break up into molecules and dissipate,
become as invisible as what I was
hoping for but was so far unable to
find: compassion and understanding, a small
mercy on the side, having forgotten where I
was amidst all that lunar spotlighting of
the face of the dark earth, realizing in silence
even my breathing was needy, night crickets
on fire, earth ablaze in reflected light, the
night fat and full of harvest while you were not
coming, were in fact elsewhere, which under the
endless blanched firmament meant I was nowhere.
Sandra Kolankiewicz’s poems have appeared widely over the years, most recently in New World Writing, London Magazine, and Appalachian Heritage.