In the hard shadow of the moon when the recesses of light have gone and the faint red of the hawk's shoulder has disappeared from the sky in the growing pulse of the praying mantis when the city has come into its own new light it is here where I often remember: the weaving of ocean vines the trails of history, cemented by touch the small ridged blossom of the cowry shell the indigo dye made radiant by the seller's basket. The way the long grass emerges at the shore. Something of that meeting. These are memories both distant and near traces of them lived and felt laughing in the company of the ones who came holding the silence of the moment, as we stare with wonder, at the bubbling ruptures of a painter's canvas, pull, with care, the clinging skin of a stubborn fruit. I recall these moments not from the grand gesture of a thing once known, but from a small place the place where my child's hand is hidden warmly inside my own. Copyright © 2019 by Matthew Shenoda. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on November 13, 2019, by the Academy of American Poets. |
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