Lucien Darjeun Meadows
The summer everything changed, I walked out
Past the field, into the forest, toward the cleft
In the hill, on the darker side of the river.
Our entire house could fit into this swollen gap
No father or grandfather could explain.
Sitting on the edge, swinging my feet, I leaned back
And fell, wrist-deep, into the body of a deer,
Just a fawn, really, with no eyes. His mouth was open,
His tongue black, swollen, vibrating with flies.
My hand in his stomach, I looked up, up, past
The sycamores, toward the sun, clotted by cloud.
I did not do this. But my hand was inside him,
And only the rustling of darkness over the trees
Brought me to my feet.
from the book IN THE HANDS OF THE RIVER / Hub City Press
READ ABOUT TODAY'S POEM
Share Share
Tweet Tweet
Forward Forward
I’m fascinated by inheritances—what do we know we inherit, and what inheritances are invisible, even silenced? How are we encouraged (by family, by ourselves) to be complicit in the silence? Growing up, I had (and still have) many questions about my family and our relationship to land and community. Add to that, growing up queer. In some ways, “Cleave” might be a coming-out poem. In some ways, it’s trying to ask questions that, often, are still unanswered.

Lucien Darjeun Meadows on "Cleave"
Color headshot of Maureen N. McClane
"Short Conversations with Poets: Maureen N. McLane"

"Romantic poets model for us, or at least for me, the possibility of rigorous, difficult hope; of space-clearing negations; of song and critique; and of aesthetic emergence: such a poetry 'should forever be becoming and never be perfected.' That’s an openness, a venturesomeness, I respond to in contemporary poets as well."

via MCSWEENEY'S
READ ALL TODAY'S HEADLINES
Color photograph of the cover of Reginald Dwayne Betts' book, Felon
What Sparks Poetry:
Jeevika Verma on Reginald Dwayne Betts' Felon


"He claims the label prison gives him—felon—and says, look, I did make mistakes, and now I am dealing with the consequences. But look, also, at how we lend ourselves to the system. How we dehumanize the incarcerated man. How every time he tries to love, we remind him of when he didn’t—'What name for / this thing that haunts, this thing we become.'"
READ THIS WEEK'S ISSUE
View in browser

You have received this email because you submitted your email address at www.poems.com
If you would like to unsubscribe please click here.

© 2022 Poetry Daily, Poetry Daily, MS 3E4, 4400 University Dr., Fairfax, VA 22030

Design by the Binding Agency