TWO POEMS FROM LAUREL REVIEW
MARY ANN SAMYN
Oh Guess What
The apple was bright inside. A real apple. Very bright.
Real, too, the coyote caught in the nighttime camera.
And how my hand brushed yours, just because it did.
A single day. As usual, I prayed aloud, telling the story.
Most men have one face that is harder than the others.
What is that about? Why does it happen in the first place?
There’s a loaded-down pear tree I want to show you.
There’s a decision I made, finally, a year ago.
It hurt to watch you be unhappy this afternoon.
Try as he might, the coyote can’t climb the tree.
Sometimes, asking feels like that, also in black and white.
There’s no perfect thing to say, no perfect way to say it.
It takes concentration
to only feel the fingers on my face
in firm circles around the eyes, and the background noises.
And everything is in a line.
mussed and jumbled, but still in a line.
or something we could call a line, or pretend.
The rainbows of suds, a few, glinting about.
The randomness of it
all. You know, you won’t find anything here
or in the way we arrive.
It is how lipstick clings to crystal glasses
without any pattern
and how I never raise my hand to say goodbye.
It is how there was something you were going to say,
something about the way I am.
*all poems from The Laurel Review 47.1 (2013), Eds. John Gallaher and Richard Sonnenmoser.