Between Homes
by Lauren Camp
One day this spring, the sky taunted the sycamore
to toss down leaves. Tested the boundary of elm
to take a barb of wind. The ground knew what a clearing
had been and was waiting for it
to come again. In tiny grass, every dim view—
not an echo at last. We couldn’t but give a father
the rip out, a stranger’s pulse. It was winter
or a day of eggs, or the tiniest rubble, the future.
The headstone has five lines
of previous instance. At the top, the name. Bottom,
stone-shaped ground. Each visit, I will run
my fingers exact over those accurate
letters. The trees will leaf and surge
with wind. For an era, my father
mouthed light and dark
until he didn’t know such darkness was his own.
Jays chase the lawn, bent over, pecking
the impermanent. And it will come to me to go on. I understand
only a partial view. When I go home
to my dry landscape, I whisper the names
of apples and shadows. The oven bakes
the meat, lifts the bread. I taste it
with salt, taste it with honey.
ABOUT THE CREATOR
Creator photo by Bob Godwin
Lauren Camp currently serves as New Mexico Poet Laureate. She is the author of seven books, including An Eye in Each Square (River River Books, 2023) and Worn Smooth between Devourings (NYQ Books, 2023). Camp is a 2023 Academy of American Poets Laureate fellow and the recipient of a Dorset Prize and finalist citations for the Arab American Book Award and Adrienne Rich Award for Poetry. Her poems have been translated into Mandarin, Turkish, Spanish, French, and Arabic. laurencamp.com. @laurencamp on Instagram.