Mark Wagenaar
The signs are everywhere. The cat drops headless birds, cardinal,
bluejay, something whitewinged, beside the rocker on the front porch.

A diamondback leaves its skin at field's edge. Heaps of dead wasps
near it, sun-brindled bodies like a funeral pyre in time's slow flame.

A perfect circle of feathers: yes, you'll owe more than you have today.
A perfect circle of raised white welts: yes, there will be enough

for dinner tonight. You find a one-antlered deer skull hung
from the branches of a young oak: yes, she'll come back someday.

Bag worms like prayer lanterns at wood's edge, sizzle
of cicadas in the trees, a hundred ratchets spinning on the car

of the dog-bayed August sun. The signs are everywhere. The dogs
got another one of the chickens. A mimosa drops its flares

into the river, the light of years resurfacing reaches you. The light
of other towns. Other tongues, older tongues. Issaquena, Choctaw

for deer river. You say it to the crumpled deer body roadside,
tiger lilies blazing on their wicks in the ditch. Issaquena.

The first two county seats are now ghost towns on this alluvial plain,
buckshot soil, bottomland. Ghost towns, ghost tongues, we, too,

are alluvial, & bear the traces of others upon us. This county is no
dry bones, this county will rise again, our neighbor rumbles, the one who wears

a gator's tooth around his neck for luck. Seven types of fog, seven types
of rattlers. Ache of crepe myrtle blossoms by the road, white ones, fuchsia,

ache of all we cannot bring ourselves to ask: pocketless, starless,
what can a body keep, what can a body bear? You must ask yourself,

the river, the dark, you must ask a hundred times, because so many
have gone into both without an answer. Benthic ourselves,

alluvial, we bear the signs, names, petals, ashes of a church fire
on the air, we bear the light of names no one knows how to say anymore.
from the book SOUTHERN TONGUES LEAVE US SHINING / Red Hen Press
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"Where does one begin a book? After 'The Body Distances,' I wasn't sure where to begin. I'm grateful to Beth Ann Fennelly for choosing my poems and awarding me the Summer Poet in Residence at Ole Miss. A summer in Oxford, Mississippi, provided a startling landscape and inspired the vision and structure behind both this poem and 'Southern Tongues.'"

Mark Wagenaar on "1. Southern Divinations"
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"Truth Buried in the Bones

Michael Bazzett introduces his favorite poet, Lucille Clifton, through the short poem, "why some people be mad at me sometimes." "Her poems have a way of sidling up to you and whispering their sly and cutting wisdom into your ear and then wandering off before you know what hit you." 
 
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What Sparks Poetry:
Peter Streckfus on "An Allegory"


"I thought about the future—and the shores my daughter would stand on—every time we played in water. Play with a young child is always about the objects themselves, but at the same time always seems somehow allegorical. A story unfolds. Ideas about the world are exposed: Rub-a-dub-dub, three men in a tub…."
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