IN JOSHUA TREE
We heard this sound like a calf in the night—
A sound like learning life is cruel and untimely, and standing there in the dark
We scrambled back into the car, but not before seeing the milky way
drunk on no light nor noise but that of the young
suffering knowledge and the thumbs of trees
digging themselves slowly out of the ground my god—
it is never night in New York—
the closest you get is the wheezy big man breathing. . .
But out here in the desert something else passes over your head
between the sun coming down and the sun going up again
and it isn’t just the stars, rolling back their beautiful heads,
emitting only enough light to be reminded
you aren’t here with me
HARRISON’S, BARBADOS
A chandelier stalactite hangs from the ceiling of the cave.
Five or so meters below, it’s corresponding stalagmite
baubles at a glacial pace. Each is the other’s mirror,
what’s had by the chandelier is fed to its ottoman twin—
not a drop can be refused.
The tour guide says these fixtures grow two centimeters
every one-hundred and twenty years,
and that just doesn’t seem slow enough to me.
In only a couple hundred centuries, the two will finally meet
and together form a pillar. What’s the pillar meant to bear the weight of?
What terrible incarnations of the public will be invited to celebrate?
I don’t miss you. That’s the first sign I’m free.
SARA POTOCSNY is the author of Dozer published by Bull City Press. They are a writer in Brooklyn, NY. They have their MFA in Creative Writing from Syracuse University and have work in or forthcoming in the West Branch, the Los Angeles Review, Maudlin House, The Offing, HAD, and others.
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A poem in Nashville Review
A poem in HAD
A poem in The Los Angeles Review