Before we do what we have to do (the dishes, the folding
of laundry), I offer to wreck you with what I know now, which is
impractical new buds on the succulents, the contraptions
of petals they’ve grown. Before we do
what we need to do (the tending of worry,
the garbage, the leftover grief), I remind you the midair
billow of milkweed from summer’s lush mouth.
Before we return to deadlines and details, our humanity
neatly boxed up, turn to whatever
my friend Joan calls impending doom, I offer you
the Firewheel’s straightsunning ruby, and Snow Angel blossoms
wide open as hearts. Let’s watch the muzzles
of insects at each flowerbell, having parted the curtains
to reach what they need. This moment.
That’s what we have to stop heartbreak—
inward brimming light, the daysounds and tulips’
inverted hats. Nothing to fail at. Everything is windrivulet
and small graces and paired doves
with their mothering tones. Now is a matter of spirit.
Without sorrow. Now is feather and branches. Seeds again
in this pinethroated sphere, now where I live.
This poem first appeared in Nimrod International Journal.
—
Lauren Camp serves as New Mexico Poet Laureate. She is the author of eight books of poetry, most recently In Old Sky (Grand Canyon Conservancy, 2024). An Astronomer-in-Residence at Grand Canyon National Park, Camp received the Dorset Prize, finalist commendations for the Arab American Book Award and Adrienne Rich Award, and fellowships from the Academy of American Poets and Black Earth Institute. Her poems have been translated into Mandarin, Turkish, Spanish, French, and Arabic. www.laurencamp.com
