Original

By JACQUELYN POPE 
Girl when you get lost
the forest will find you
tame you   take you over.

Pocket of breadcrumbs
and birdsong. Pocket of rocks. 


The ends of town   the noise
of home are lost
where you go digging down

and out   and under
furrowed in mud and stone.
When you rise and run

remember   the good black silt
of these good green days

tilt of this time   beaten fast
then faster ground given shape
and shine   its living part

where you bloom   like a dare
worked out of the dark.

 

Jacquelyn Pope is the author of Watermark. Hungerpots, her translations of the Dutch poet Hester Knibbe, is forthcoming. She is the recipient of a 2015 NEA Translation Fellowship, a PEN/Heim Translation Fund grant, and awards from the Academy of American Poets and the Massachusetts Cultural Council.

[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!

Original

Related Posts

July 2026 Poetry Feature

AMIYA MORETTA
Magnolia tree in the window, hammock, / a loop in hours, a cradle of light we swing inside, / naming what we’re afraid of. / In this version, he is from halfway around the world. / Some net caught the curve of us in the dark, / gathered what it could, his hand, my pulse.

Caribbean picture

Self-Portrait in The Caribbean

PAOLA ASSAD BARBARINO
Sometimes I am emboldened, / I decide to stand in the people’s balcony / I decide it is Maundy Thursday I decide to place a priest behind me that can speak to the people behind / my back / I decide to put out the fire and light my throat / scream

Feltspade

ELIAS SADAQ
I serve out my conscription / sleep in a bunk bed / for four cold months / in the engineer regiment at Skive Garrison / in a room with three other men / I fuck the colonel / the only sign that time is passing / is a pile of snow outside the window / that grows smaller