I’ve turned/returned to The Offing, Alison Palmer’s fourth poetry collection, over the past few weeks (Broadstone Books, 2024). I find new insight, beauty, and heartbreak at each turn. This post — my response.
In Three Turns with The Offing*
I read, Not everything is better in the light*,
and pray, Please God, let something be better in the light.
I set down thorn words, broken wire, pinhole-
by-star-in-midnight-sky words and wait.
After anger burns me down and I sweep up
bitters and regrets;
After wishes squeeze through windowsill cracks to grow
lungs and inhabit selves outside of me;
After it becomes clear the hope I dug into earth beneath the pine that says,
I too want to shed my leaves, was buried not planted;
After rest,
I pick up feather-words, read, Distance has been an emergency
where tenderness never existed.*
If trust can’t be counted between lovers, between friends, in slant
words I find lucidity that feels like tenderness, like honesty.
The Offing, poems by Alison Palmer (Broadstone Books, 2024)
*"Arrogance of Days"
*"On Separating (with You)"
I am not always able to access the pain, grief, longing, and beauty in these poems from a place of love, but when I do, as I do now, little compares with their gorgeous essence, their shimmer, the elemental captured in having known a Love.
There are 30 pieces in The Offing, of which I have several favorites. Here’s one:
In the Middle of Kissing You, Trees Catch Fire
Who command the trees burn so quickly
we fail to see them? I don’t need the flames’ reflection
in your golden eyes, but I want a bit of madness. Part of this night
doesn’t make sense. What good are thousands of stars
if they fail to illuminate a single wish?
What kind of sky is that? I’ve no grasp on mornings
you decide to wake alone. I whisper,
I want your skin on mine, in such a way
you don’t feel it at all. I’ll send my distress signals
before day-break; we’re here, kissing autumnally.
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