By Cynthia Hogue
(for Pam and Bill)
1
Since when
was the breach
and what broke, a door
or wall, nothing we hadn’t
defended, everything we regarded—
the vague mattress, a filthy shirt
flung over the chair, the little cook stove
we heated water on, food
if there was any—
as having mattered to no one
but us? This rupture
filled the space, our lives
with blood, but I say
it was blossoms, blossoms.
2
Later would be the clatter of bottles.
Windows overlooking a valley.
Now people come to scavenge.
The noise distracts you from decoding
the meaning of your recurring dream:
someone breaking in, looking to harm you.
Sometimes you know them,
and regardless the question of
whether you cower or fight.
Over the year you have this dream
you realize courage isn’t
not being afraid,
but the fact that you were
and you stayed.
3
The shimmering trail crossing a clear sky
growing brighter and brighter at dusk
didn’t dissipate. The haloed round tip.
The luminous streak. We thought it a rocket
or bomb, not landing but leaving
in its wake nerve gas
or some other poison to drift
over the hills around us as a glittering dust.
We’d sit in a circle together,
marveling at the luck
of communion, the flickering
candlelight. The care that was cure.
Cynthia Hogue is the author of ten poetry collections, including instead, it is dark (Red Hen Press, 2023). The recipient of two National Endowment for the Arts fellowships, she lives in Tucson on the unceded land of the Tohono O’odham nation.
Courtesy of the American Academy of Poets.
