Tianyi
I.

I watched your throat melt
            until it was all sound,

stood over your glass
            winter, the drapes

lithe as light and
            my vigil close to crow//

I swear, mountain,
            I heard knee before knell.


II.

All the time, clovers
            all the time// spines. A driveway

dies like the sun between our arms,
            and we called it Calgary// because nothing

sat in the pickup truck trundling home,
            or in the help//

which outlasts the life.

It was iron// beyond you.
            The country of your neck// more than hungering.


III.

Weeks from when her body//
            would clam shut,

she reached for a candle,
            and crushed it into her temple//

                                            Open,
she asked the Silence.
                                            Gun,
it echoed back.
from the journal NEW ENGLAND REVIEW 
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I was interested in fragility, particularly its tie to separateness. So the poem needed violence, by that I mean a fulcrum, and by that I mean many people.

Tianyi on "Knees as a Sign of Wonder"
Black-and-white photograph of W. H. Auden in New York in 1960
"W.H. Auden: Immigrant Poet Turned East Villager"

"Auden’s poetry began to reflect his observations of and interactions with American culture, politics, and landscapes. While his earlier works are characterized by their political engagement and formal experimentation, his later works, written in the U.S., display a more personal and philosophical depth. One of the most significant poems from his early residency here in the U.S. is “The Age of Anxiety,” which won Auden the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry." 

via OFF THE GRID
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Cover image of Lisa Duncan's book, Given
What Sparks Poetry:
Liza Katz Duncan on "The Uncles" 

"'The Uncles' are not actual people but attempts to personalize the tragedy of Superstorm Sandy through memories, anecdotes I had heard from neighbors and read in the news, bits of conversation, and places and images that continue to haunt me to this day. I chose the sestina’s six ending words to drive home exactly what was being lost, and what we continue to lose, both concrete (bay, fence, birds) and abstract (home, ways of knowing)."
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