Wednesday Feb 28

RoskoEmily Emily Rosko is the author of two books: Prop Rockery, winner of the 2011 Akron Poetry Prize, and Raw Goods Inventory, awarded the 2005 Iowa Poetry Prize. She is editor of A Broken Thing: Poets on the Line (U of Iowa P, 2011) and poetry editor at Crazyhorse literary journal. She is assistant professor at the College of Charleston.


Some of us get impatient, some of us so
tiredly world-notched. The sky an apparent
no the sun won’t riot against. Bone-barked
sycamore not letting go. Some handful
of what’s better than and sorted by who
figures who. Any song will get us started:
a chorus-filled racket the crickets tune to.
We could build silence a palace, canopied
by moss-coated water oaks (they have
a boat inside them, a dream to go afloat);
or, count the strokes the saw would wear
through. No matter what we lose. Notepebbled,
the faraway river worries its bank
as everything we hurry to see goes gone.

I felt like the sound of a harp
and all else
wind-strung. Seed pinwheels
of the oak, airplane propellers
dividing the air
in spring. A sound the ear
cannot catch; nor the mind
bending back to afternoons
of anywhere else. I could have
sat in the sun-patch all day.
The tulips in agreement.
The unmarvelled cocoons
twined in the firs and sumac.
I have not thought of this
in some time. Circling
the house for signs:
robin shells, fist-sized
young rabbits, snails,
the short red nub of new
leaf on the roses. I do not
know the air, but I do. I’m ever
so unsure this was once
there. The day divided
by grass blades, some green
thing bounding up the soil.
Clouds sweeping by
in a hurry, the blue with
no place else to go.