On Wariness

By MYRONN HARDY

I’m afraid of your elation.
The way you arrive masked.
The way the mask is removed

outside of the airport.
In that big city of lanterns     someone
knows your teeth.  Someone

knows the way you dance     your
rosemary     lime smell.
There is rhythm in the jumble.

There is rhythm on the pavement.
There is rhythm in small
apartment rooms.

I’m over slicing tomatoes.
I’m over drinking wine.
I’m performing as not to be

deformed     as not
to show what I shouldn’t.
I don’t want to feel everything.

I don’t want to know this distance.
The way it throttles.
The way it renders night

in me     a dreadful stillness.
I don’t want to be still.
I don’t want to be dream.

I don’t want to float among scorching orbs.
I don’t want to feed
the gulls what I know.

 

Myronn Hardy is the author of, most recently, Radioactive Starlings. Aurora Americana is forthcoming this fall. His poems have appeared in The New York Times Magazine, Ploughshares, Poetry, The Georgia Review, The Baffler, and elsewhere. He lives in Maine.

[Purchase Issue 25 here]

On Wariness

Related Posts

hand written notes

Weekly Writes Volume 8: Accountable You

  Weekly Writes is a ten-week program designed to help you create original place-based writing and stay accountable to your practice in the new year, beginning January 29. We’re offering both poetry AND prose, in two separate programs. What do you want to prioritize in 2024? Pick the program, sharpen your pencils, and get ready

A small plant sprout pokes through cracked, dry earth.

The Children of the Garden

ANNIE TRINH
He removed the soil from the newborn babies, took them into the kitchen, and placed them in the sink. Monoecious plants, one boy and one girl. Her father cleared all the dirt from their bodies. With a fresh towel, he cleaned their tiny hands, wiggling feet, faces.

Cover of Smith's forthcoming novel, "Seaweed Rising."

Excerpt from Seaweed Rising

ROB MAGNUSON SMITH
He found a stone cottage overlooking the Helford River. It was technically a holiday let, but the cottage hadn’t been occupied in years. There was no central heating and the tile roof leaked. Inside, there was a strange creeping mist intent on crushing what was left of his soul.