At Newgrange: The Best Self Is a Tough Sell

By ELIZABETH SCANLON 

County Meath, Ireland, ca. 3200 BC 

 

At Newgrange, they carved spirals into the stone

over and over, though surely a curved line is the most difficult

and time-consuming thing to carve into stone, carving

with another stone, into the long, dark nights that went on for ages,  

and underground, in the earth berm of its domed temple,

they packed the rocks in together, they left only the opening

toward the sky to align with the equinox sun—the entire goal

of the place to harness this one beam they believed would come—

how cold they must have been in their labor.

 

And you begin again, rising every day.

The black moon, it’s called, when only a sliver shows

and the lunar new year begins. It’s the suggestion of seeing

what you cannot see,

slicing open the sky, a sacrifice for the hope

that there will be wholeness. That wrongs will be mended.

There will be food for the goat, who is not picky

but doesn’t eat trash. That’s a myth.

 

The bananas that came in the box off the truck were so green,

such a beautiful poisonous acid green they made me afraid of dying

and I was pissed off immediately at the stupidity of delivery

when really, how bad was it out there?

No one’s their best self in February.

Or maybe someone is, but how would we know?

Who’s making a special trip?

 

The dog would love to get at whatever is in the walls,

whatever that is just wants something to eat. And not to die,

I suppose. Here, have a banana.

 

[Purchase Issue 13 here]

Elizabeth Scanlon is the Editor of The American Poetry Review. She is the author of Lonesome Gnosis, The Brain Is Not the United States/The Brain Is the Ocean, and Odd Regard.

Julia PikeAt Newgrange: The Best Self Is a Tough Sell

Related Posts

tree

Rivendell

JULIA PIKE
Finally, it was finished: a hulking, rustic cube of gray-painted wood with huge windows all along the front. In daylight, the house looks haunted—a gray shack with empty dark eyes—but at night, when the yellow lamps are on in the living room and the chimney tosses sparks out into the night sky, the house beckons you in from the cold. The parents were all Tolkien fans, and so they called the house Rivendell: the last safe place for the elves.

Notes on the Inner City book title

Friday Reads: June 2017

We love any excuse to hear from our contributors! This month, our Issue 13 authors and poets tap into their literary communities as they recommend works by colleagues, friends, and Pulitzer Prize winners. United in their affection, the authors are nonetheless divided by their selections, as their choices shed light upon nowhereness, colonization, and Florida oranges.

Good Boys

MEGAN FERNANDES
Once in a car, a good boy / shook me hard. If you like it / that way in bed, then why are you… / the tiny bruises on my arms / where his prints pressed into my pink/ sleeves rose to the surface like rattles. / Like requests. They thrived there / for a week until they settled /