Home > Chapbook Finalists 2010 > Something Unfolds In The Distance

Something Unfolds In The Distance

August 27, 2010

from Alchemy and Atrophy by Tim Lockridge

Some days you say the word meadow
and the meadow is not actually
a meadow but the memory of someone
you haven’t heard from in years and now

her voice unwinds in your answering
machine. And her voice is a nest
of poppy seeds and her words are pollen
and you realize this when the sun splits

the window and you only want to fold
your hands and let doves loose in the snow.
And your hands are sidewalks that miss
the kiss of her skirt-hem each morning

and you imagine a city block, her daily
walk: cafe, newsstand, parking meter.
And there’s a lull in her speech, a pause
in her plea and here you build a new

rendition of the past: untilled fields
and buildings unbuckling. You consider
confession, maybe admit your heart
is a plastic bag and your desire a streetlight.

Or is your desire the autobahn? No
matter. You erase the message and spin
dials on the stove, bring water to boil.
Your mind is clover covered, your thoughts

are worn fence posts—your desire:
long mornings that sink into noon.


First appeared in Mid-American Review, Vol. XXIX, No. 2 (Spring 2009).

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Tim Lockridge’s poetry has recently appeared in Passages North, DIAGRAM, The Cimarron Review, and many other literary journals. He lives in Blacksburg, Virginia.

  1. mary
    August 27, 2010 at 3:30 pm

    Amazing images.

    Building a new redition of the past: untiled fields and buildings unbuckling. Very nice.

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