By Ange Mlinko Ange Mlinko
I wake to light jackhammering, and news
follows: a plane
failed over the sea. All want to go home, but drastic curfews
obtain from a meridian.

                                      *     *     *

We are a long way from a sea that cedes
black boxes from an area
forested as the Andes. Instead, a Mercedes,
black as La Brea,
leaps from the backlit red, anonymous,
when we try to cross
at the traffic island discarding hibiscus
with every wind-toss.

                                      *     *     *

We are a long way from the courteous lilac
or waxwing
with sensitive feather tipped as a kayak
is tipped by a coxswain.

Source: Poetry (February 2011).


This poem originally appeared in the February 2011 issue of Poetry magazine

February 2011
 Ange  Mlinko


Ange Mlinko is the author of three books, Shoulder Season (Coffee House Press, 2010), Starred Wire (Coffee House Press, 2005), which was a National Poetry Series winner in 2004 and a finalist for the James Laughlin Award, and Matinees (Zoland Books, 1999). In 2009, she won the Randall Jarrell Award in Criticism. Mlinko was born in Philadelphia, and has worked in Brooklyn, Providence, Boston, and Morocco. She has taught poetry at . . .

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