Image by Juliana Toro

Poetry Californian

S. Brook Corfman


after Brian Teare, for Hillary

Except dew of morning
no rain marks the shoulder, relaxed
into neon. Drought is a specific kind
of lack, rough to touch,
translucent, but we pay in many ways
for grass. I like information, and you liked
when I thought in my poems.
The edge of a hand shielding an eye
and the pupil simple as a carnation
opens or lops off, heavy
and strangely vertical.
We lay in the field, green ghosts
in different times
expensive to keep alive.
When your friend spoke a hummingbird appeared,
and I was so embarrassed by it
because I was so sad.
Standing on the side
of a small mountain as the red forest
spilled in the rain, I almost came home.
I experienced a fever
but ignored it, I experienced the world
as a bowl, as round, as if
with a thought
I could roll it back.

S. Brook Corfman is the author of the poetry collections My Daily Actions, or The Meteorites, named one of the best poetry books of 2020 by The New York Times, and Luxury, Blue Lace.