Emily Barton Altman
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BODIES OF WATER
Evenings are like this,
you know. You
used to tell it
when the street
light crept in
and the trees went
dim. You
remember
the cold
to be
devastating.
No, me. That was
a simpler
time the past
is always
easier you
say over and
overhear it
on the train.
What? That.
The summer we spent—
used,
wasted,
waiting.
The mornings were
clear and the
trees were
full—
contained, us, & red.
Dimly sweeten,
dimly call,
remember,
invent
me, some me,
rely on it.
EDGE
i.
clarity—a sign of death
pulling an east
a north
where the city meets the edge.
the city is a grid
the city is an axis
a tunnel
for wind
stilts raise buildings and
winds pull waves from water
constructed nature
a shoreline pushed out.
ii.
the city arcs around it
extends its limbs
weathered stone
among it
depth
where
the lake once stood.
LOOK
I used to believe
I could avoid
the presence of loss.
Instead I am always
circling absence.
I look back
from a new angle.
All my truths sound
like one lie
and so I move
them elsewhere.
You will be asked
to do this,
and it will hurt.
Biographical Statement:
Emily Barton Altman is the author of two chapbooks, "Bathymetry" (Present Tense Pamphlets, 2016), and "Alice Hangs Her Map" (dancing girl press, 2019). Recent poems are forthcoming or appear in Second Factory, Bone Bouquet, Tagvverk, and elsewhere. She is a recipient of a Poets & Writers Amy Award and received her MFA from New York University. She is currently a PhD Candidate in English and Creative Writing at the University of Denver.