Erin Adair-Hodges
Kansas coos me into its wheat.
Done with direction, I follow the lightning,
God's arrows insisting even the desolate
            can be a destination.

In the black and white of a winter dawn
            a train zippers the wet land
            to a sky clouded with intention.
It looks more like a photograph

than a photograph resembles the moment
it captures, its frame diverting, its filter
slanting truths. Say I make of this a photo—
            what would the evidence show?

That I was in a body here for awhile
and I wanted this to mean something?
            Is this the alibi or the crime?
And who is the jury to receive this—no one

knows I'm here. I loaded the car in Technicolor
and drove east—had done milked the west
of fresh starts—but the time changed
            so I don't know when I am.

Kansas says it does not matter. Time
rolls over its husks and soil like fog, changing
nothing. So much land—
            anyone could be buried out here.
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Joy Harjo Becomes The First Native American U.S. Poet Laureate
 
"Poet, writer and musician Joy Harjo—a member of the Muscogee Creek Nation—often draws on Native American stories, languages and myths. But she says that she's not self-consciously trying to bring that material into her work. If anything, it's the other way around."

via NATIONAL PUBLIC RADIO
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Eric Pankey's handwritten version of "When You Go Away"

"The premise of 'When You Go Away,' is familiar: when the lover is separated from the beloved, the order of the world changes. Given the limits of this conventional subject, how did Merwin make a thing both faithful to its convention and new? I found an answer to my question in the complexity of the poem’s final lines: “my words are the garment of what I shall never be / Like the tucked sleeve of a one-armed boy.”

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