Sycamore

Poems

Kathy Fagan

• Publisher: Milkweed Editions
• Year: 2017
• Print ISBN: 9781571314734
• eBook ISBN: 9781571319296
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: American Poetry
• Index: Literature

These "flinty, well-crafted poems abound with texture and verve" as the author explores nature, love, and mourning in a landscape all her own ( Publishers Weekly).
This collection of meditative poems by Kathy Fagan takes the sycamore as its inspiration—and delivers precise, luminous insights on lost love, nature, and the process of recovery. "It is the season of separation & falling / Away," Fagan writes. And so—like the abundance of summer diminishing to winter, and like the bark of the sycamore, which sheds to allow the tree's expansion—the speaker of these poems documents a painful loss and tenuous rebirth, which take shape against a forested landscape.
Black walnuts fall where no one can eat or smell them. Cottonwood sends out feverish signals of pollen. And everywhere are sycamores, informed by Fagan's scientific and mythological research. Spellbinding and ambitious, Sycamore is an important new work from a writer whose poems "gleam like pearls or slowly burning stones" (Philip Levine).
A 2018 Kingsley Tufts Poetry Award Finalist

I

CARO NOME

Jets shake the air and snow

breaks off a tree branch in little puffs. One

cardinal. Cars moving slowly downhill on the ice.

It is always someone’s last day.

Dearest Bird, she read from the card she’d found unattached to the flowers,

Happy Day To Our Sweetest Hart. Love Monster And Beef Dad.

Their secret language.

Manischewitz, she calls me for the sweetness.

Manitoba, for the expanse.

Deer rest in snow,

charcoal muzzle to charcoal hoof, heads slung over

their shoulders like swans.

One is in REM. Look at it dreaming, she said.

Fern buttons unwheel in a dark place behind the snow,

a contrast she loves in me.

The sledding hill is closed, the days like an unused billboard,

but sunsets have been fantastic,

jewel-toned as the flowers unattached to the card, or hot like the cardinal

who pins the whole picture up

with your eye. Meanwhile,

her tree is an iron room with the moon inside. Its branches

have a mental disorder so sunsets keep dodging them.

I am the color of that tree

she loves and nearly as still. And my blood, which is not in this picture,

will soon cool, sunset winking out in my eyes and her eyes

welling in a language that once fell and rose

in drifts then melted, starry, she said, starry, into my warm coat.

CINDER

after “Disquieting Landscapes,” demolition video by Cyprien Gaillard

I’m worried about the house and its snotty new crybaby face.

Something under the siding froze in the blizzard then followed the icicles

down but only partway. What’s under my skin is

opposite, like cinder, burning but barely, nearly extinguished.

It fell from the El like snow sometimes I’d want to catch it on my tongue.

It’s worse at night when something smells not quite like home but ashen

and tremors move inside my thighs as if I’d ridden my bike to a moon

I shouldn’t have. Her voice is not her T-shirt though it can feel like her

heat on my ribs if I want it to. When I close my eyes I see

the exhibit’s demolition loop: roving spot, fireworks, the crowd

a safe distance away. Built in 1958 in the suburbs of Paris,

the building is nondescript: 51 years × 40 units × an average of 2.2 inhabitants

per unit per year for an average of 16 years apiece = what?

No one wants to do the math anymore unless there’s dynamite involved.

But where do they go, mouths shaped in little Os of expectation?

Is that how they recognize each other at the current and the singe?

When the building collapses toward its center, like Topsy the famous

electrocuted elephant, not even the dust stays airborne long.

SNOW GLOBE

after Encounters at the End of the World by Werner Herzog

With booms & chirrs seals

speak under the ice of an ocean

frozen over.

Stationary ocean. Electrified song.

Color: snow day with autumn

leaves inside it,

glassine sheers of cantaloupe & kiwi on

lavender, gunmetal, jetwing—

When you rode the elephant through

the puncture, the first syllable of my name

parted the deep with your beautiful hand.

Sparrow shuddered in her dustbath, swath of pleasure

raked up

& out.

This is where I sat

in the avalanche.

In winter,

where I was born,

you pulled a cord of silk in your beautiful hand.

I heard nothing

under the ice. Bye-bye now, our people would say.

Bye-bye later.

First, song,

a detonation—

then white everywhere.

2323...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Contents
• Platanaceae Family Tree
• Part I
• Part II
• Part III
• Notes
• Acknowledgments
• About the Author