by Lauren Camp
In a garden heavy with lanterns of color, a woman takes photos
of every side of herself, head up and sparkling. A singular methodology.
She is sealed into that looking to later
flip through and dismiss. The river hosts its quietest gesture.
My brother pulls a leaf from a tobacco plant,
chews it. It is the end
of autumn. We are in a garden crisscrossed with
cosmos, opulent and wide, wobbly with secrets. I read only this morning
again of war. Saw pictures of burials that I wanted to keep
peripheral. Catching myself thinking
of sadness, I look up to the rippled coil of sunset but the sky is now only
bruised. We stand beside stone lions. Together we look
so differently at the world.
The dark has invented what is already ours.
Lauren Camp serves as New Mexico Poet Laureate. She is the author of eight poetry collections, including In Old Sky (Grand Canyon Conservancy, 2024), which grew out of her experience as Astronomer-in-Residence at Grand Canyon National Park. She received a Dorset Prize, a Glenna Luschei Award from Prairie Schooner, and finalist citations for the Arab American Book Award and Adrienne Rich Award. Her poems have been translated into Mandarin, Turkish, Spanish, French, and Arabic. www.laurencamp.com