Gemology

By MARIE GAUTHIER
They hack their way through the wild
kingdom of the back yard
while she alights on a chair, her book
unopened on the grass, more
rest for her glass than her eyes,
which follow to foil: spoiled
moods, spilled blood, numinous
harms yet undreamt.
Bronze-headed boys goldenrod-tall,
hunched-over treble clefs,
they dig pockets into the dirt,
rummage their hands around cool clay
seams, pulling root threads loose.
They’re not hunting the usual
buried treasure, but rocks crab
apple small, which they crush
onto other rocks smaller still:
it’s the quartz inside—the cosmos
dust of impact, the refracting jagged
hearts—they want.
Blow upon blow only rocks collide,
fingers curled back from the edges
as the centers crack—Spanish red
swirls in her glass, wine-eyed sunset
casting its glow as if to diffuse
the shattering, the inevitable crash.

 

Marie Gauthier is the author of a chapbook, Hunger All Inside, and recent poems can be read in The MacGuffin, Cave Wall, Hunger Mountain, Magma Poetry, and elsewhere. She won a 2008 Dorothy Sargent Rosenberg Poetry Prize in addition to an honorable mention in 2010. She lives with her husband and two young sons in Shelburne Falls, Massachusetts where she works for Tupelo Press and co-curates the Collected Poets Series.

[Purchase your copy of Issue 02 here.]

From the beginning, The Common has brought you transportive writing and exciting new voices. We are committed to supporting writers and maintaining free, unrestricted access to our website, but we can’t do it without you. Become an integral part of our global community of readers and writers by donating today. No amount is too small. Thank you!

Gemology

Related Posts

New York City skyline

Lawrence Joseph: New Poems

LAWRENCE JOSEPH
what we do is // precise and limited, according to / the Minister of Defense, // the President / is drawing a line, // the President is drawing / a red line, we don’t want to see  / a major ground assault, the President says, / it’s time for this to end, / for the day after to begin, he says, // overseer of armaments procured

rebecca on a dock at sunset

Late Orison

REBECCA FOUST
You & I will grow old, Love, / we have grown old. But this last chance // in our late decades could be like the Pleiades, winter stars seen by / Sappho, Hesiod & Galileo & now by you & me. // Let us be boring like a hollow drill coring deep into the earth to find / its most secret mineral treasures.

Waiting for the Call I Am

WYATT TOWNLEY
Not the girl / after the party / waiting for boy wonder // Not the couple / after the test / awaiting word // Not the actor / after the callback / for the job that changes everything // Not the mother / on the floor / whose son has gone missing // I am the beloved / and you are the beloved