Poetry / Lauren Camp

No need to sudden our talk. We watch a park
for a hint of autumn and saver each shiver of leisure,

each dog on a leash, our names placed together,
another small inquiry, the integrity

of a long absence. We slip through principles
of dirt to turnips, pumpkins, and fish

welted with oxygen. Later, a nude man branches
his body to sun in a tunnel with the resolve

to belong and the long gaze
of illusion. A stock of histories. We’re locked

on the view, or the shock of being together
after years of invisible pictures.

We wander with limp soles
and inarticulate consonants repeated, the scarlet

street folded up to lantern through thin
sleeves of glass. When we climb out of the spill,

past dragons and bargains, meat slabs on hooks,
we see the moon wilt over the hill—empty and true.

Lauren Camp is the author of three books, most recently One Hundred Hungers (Tupelo Press, 2016), winner of the Dorset Prize. Her poems have appeared in New England Review, World Literature Today, North American Review, Beloit Poetry Journal and as a Poem-a-Day for She is a Black Earth Institute Fellow and a longtime producer/host on Santa Fe Public Radio.