Fifteen years and even I
who watched every season
of its changing can no longer
remember the field
that’s grown over.
Sheltered by snow-toppled
grasses, the green shoots
of trees hardened,
and by the first June
red cedars tongued
the air above bluestem.
Nothing lasts. Not the field,
not my girlhood, not the baby
I carried until the next came
behind him. Now my daughter
is the one who is young,
and already too heavy
to carry. Doves croon
to her from new pines
as they did from the pines
of my childhood. The sorrow
in their song is the sorrow
of the human listener,
old sorrow that somehow
I knew even then.
by Sean Sam
interview
... Poetry can be a way through because poetry asks for intense scrutiny. I feel like poetry is the key to unlocking a depth to English that our society erases ...
by Sean Kilpatrick
fiction
... My friend, drumming his middle finger on the glass, was bred by far worse adversities. He tied fireworks to pets ...