PoetryMagazine.com Guest Editor Feature Poet Lucille Lang Day

PoetryMagazine.com

Lucille Lang Day -
Guest Editor
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IN THE FIELD OF THE POEM,
WHEN WILL THE STAR TULIPS OPEN?

When the evening grosbeak emerges,
bright yellow, from a stand of pines
to fly across an open field
in the third line of the poem,
star tulips will appear
in a wet depression by the path.

Fan-shaped petals will open pink,
revealing an oblong gland
with a fringe of golden hairs.
The grosbeak will chirp loudly,
breaking the poem’s silence,
and you, my love, will take my hand.

From The Book of Answers (Finishing Line, 2006).

First published in Brevities.

IF THE POEM IS BROKEN,
HOW CAN THE SUNFLOWERS BREATHE?

They can’t. The desert sunflower,
the slender sunflower,
Nutall’s sunflower,
the Kansas sunflower
and the California sunflower
will all hang their heads.
Stomata will close
on diamond-shaped,
lancelike, and oval leaves.
You must help me keep
the poem intact
to let the sunflowers breathe.

From The Book of Answers (Finishing Line, 2006).

First published in Brevities.

IF I HAD TO WRITE A POEM

I would say the sky is low and gray today,
an immense stone pressing on the Bay Area,
matching the one inside me, its weight
pulling me down while all the bridges
dissolve in mist as traffic on Highway 80
inches along. It seems so wrong that the world
goes on without you, my daughter, vowing
to kick cancer’s butt, the way you once vowed
to quit your addiction to bad boyfriends, and did.

Sweet girl, I know now that you wanted me,
not your stepfather, to carry you at night
from the car to the house when you were eight,
not because you hated him but because you
needed me to hold you. Oh, how I wished
I could, but you were too heavy, even then.

From Becoming an Ancestor (Červená Barva, 2015).

First published in California Quarterly (CQ).

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