Monday May 27

Marks Poetry Gigi Marks lives in Ulysses, New York. She regularly publishes poems in numerous literary journals. Her collections of poems include, most recently, Close By, published by Silverfish Review Press in 2012, What We Need, published by Shortline Editions, and Shelter, published by Autumn House Press.

Some Days

Think of the trees,
the sycamore, dogwood, sugar maple,
the stable oak, a twisted pine, and
see the leaves or needles
as clearly as we see the fingers on our hands,
and see the depth of their roots as possibilities.
We are directional ourselves, leaning
one way and staring with green eyes toward
leafy branches. When I say I am
no longer troubled by your closeness,
I am thinking of the way trees grow,
branches overlapping,
shade richer underneath the two of them,
each accustomed to the roots that are
spreading together underground.

Everyone Can Learn Something

Tadpole quivers under algae,
the pond breathes, I’ve got
a breath of water stuck in my throat;
the reeds hold turgor but still bend
to the wind. When I clear the way
for air, the tadpole has disappeared,
the reeds stand still. Who holds
witness to our breath?
Now that I am looking at the surface
of the pond, I see my reflection,
hair dark, my body a bright, light object.
It is only me and no one else
who sees that I am breathing again,
who sees the tadpole underwater come
close again when things are quiet.