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Category archive for: Jennifer Kronovet

Her version, with interuptions

Once she stole a boat—is this how it started

at night to bring the pond a gift—

it was a bird of salt— which was taken into its reflection.

But the pond is not the sea. This is where you lived.

The lesson of dissolve—but it was a bird—sifted

to the bottom of all her actions. Is this the start

of us? How she traveled to the sea—will you

is not open for discussion.

She went back for the worst winter—the worst

winter in years— and took him—this is where

to see how the pond—embodied by cold— ended

in an edge of ice on the sand. She knew it would be foolish

to go out on the ice. But she did. And he followed.

They started. They started to see the crack rising

between them. Meaning nothing—meaning

something must still be living underneath.

from AwaywardFind it in the library

Copyright © BOA Editions, Ltd 2009
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of BOA Editions LTD.

The country from a distance

At dusk the birds roost

in the same two trees: American.

Don’t look at me walking

making me that person walking.

We don’t meet at the questions. Why

these trees? They stand beside the bakery

that decorates pastries with sugar

made to look like sawdust.

We meet at the corners

of fact: Subway tunnels

present ads appearing to move

but we are moving.

Two children smile closer together

because they are eating bread.

from AwaywardFind it in the library

Copyright © BOA Editions, Ltd 2009
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of BOA Editions LTD.

This program is supported in part by a grant from the Idaho Humanities Council, a State-based program of the National Endowment for the Humanities.

Any views, findings, conclusions, or recommendations expressed in this (publication, website, exhibit, etc.) do not necessarily represent those of the Idaho Humanities Council or the National Endowment for the Humanities.