Issue #20 (2011) PDF - myweb - Long Island University

Elspeth Woodcock Macdonald
IN CLASS WITH THE NEW ONES
Mine is a long trajectory (her arm makes a great arc in the air)
Years since I left the ground.
Below, it‘s granular, undigested, missed.
Far above the earth,
I‘m used to the words I‘ve brought with me.
You‘re still close to the ground.
You can reach the new words.
Grab one and bounce back, or toss it, smuggle others.
It‘s sometimes difficult to see what you mean.
I squint. The colors are blurred.
If I try one of your words, I miss and fall.
Sentences are better, more to latch onto,
I dive for one and dangle. Rappel, rather.
Up here, a bird sings, I don‘t know its call.
Have to learn the birds before I hit earth: one
―When, when, when‖ another, ―Blue, blue, blue, white,‖
―Egret, egret, no regret, regret,‖ and ―steady, steady‖
And one cries, ―No, no, no, yes.‖
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