NOT IN A CERTAIN LIGHT
In the mirror I see a thinning version
of myself and think of monitors
that tracked ions while I held my breath—
the magnet’s knock as consonance
thrummed the body’s narrow space,
then further in to earthly bone
lit up like ghost or cloud—sound
marking measurement of is and isn’t.
This morning, past mid-April, tulips
are weighed with snow, the green
blazoned on the ground. No use
to sweep and lift them like pyres meant
to float rough fires. They’re child-size
as the leaves I speared at tip and stem
and filled with petals—early deaths
unmoored on water by my early hands.
Laurie Lamon's work has appeared in The Atlantic, New Republic, New Criterion, Ploughshares, and other journals. Her two collections of poetry are The Fork Without Hunger (2005) and Without Wings (2009), both from CavanKerry Press. Lamon is a professor of English at Whitworth University.