Get Up, John

By Chris Dombrowski Chris Dombrowski
Here comes dawn and nothing rosy
about her fingers — stove-flame
blue and some hand must’ve turned
the burner on: the little tongues
licking, gradually, the teapot of  us
aboil, cooking off a giardia
of  stars, the dregs of our night-
mares. Who will place his fingers
in the nailmarks, come near enough
to smell death in its hair? Already we’ve
some of us slid back into our bodies,
restirring the air our breaths stirred
all night — whoever we are while
we sleep — and gone about believing
we are here. Ambulance sirens
assure us, a plum’s sour skin, what’s become
of  the poppies, dried all but greenless,
etcetera. But the yearling child
reaching into the lineaments of  sun
lancing between his crib bars — how might
this shame us, that they seem
to seem graspable to him?

Source: Poetry (May 2008).


This poem originally appeared in the May 2008 issue of Poetry magazine

May 2008
 Chris  Dombrowski


Born in Michigan, Chris Dombrowski received his MFA from the University of Montana. His publications include the chapbook Fragments with Dusk in Them (2008) and the collection By Cold Water (2009).

In a 2007 interview Dombrowski said that “finding the right form for the poem, I think, is why we write poetry.” Citing his early reading of Norman McLean’s novella A River Runs Through It as a formative influence on his decision to . . .

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Poem Categorization

SUBJECT Living, Relationships

POET’S REGION U.S., Northwestern

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Originally appeared in Poetry magazine.

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