Listen to Foreword:
Let me return to the yellow wall. A line
of French, more salt, leather belts, raw
meat, fried skins. The market. I watched the babies.
A woman sang breezes, and you told me
it never ends. You told me
by whispers. Your loose heart and its countless
sad prayers. The moon opened like a church
and wrecked me then. In the park,
we began to make repairs.
Everyone floating by in their skirts
and concerns. A woman mopped
a square of pavement. The nave in relief, the relief
of noticing its immense size.
A child sold his drawings of the sky. Cloudless.
The world had narrowed in its perfect
purposeful way. I heard only a green accordion,
wrought iron. After a while, we passed beneath the lanterns.
What light is: a moment on stone.
Heat shrank to a steady mile
of sandaled people, some whistling.
A fountain spiraled up. In all these years,
I’ve only just learned to ask for help. Tiny rush
of bubbles that repeat.
Lauren Camp is the author of four poetry collections, most recently Turquoise Door (3: A Taos Press, 2018). Her third book, One Hundred Hungers (Tupelo Press, 2016), won the Dorset Prize and was a finalist for the Arab American Book Award and the Housatonic Book Award. Her poems have appeared in The Los Angeles Review, New England Review, Crazyhorse, TAB, The Cortland Review, and elsewhere. www.laurencamp.com