Glaring
The wind blows outlines of our bodies into our clothes.
It took me six tries to say that. I miss you
when things go wrong. I wonder if you feel
like God feels: no one notices the clouds
except in context: sunset, temporary
intervals of interrupted heat. Hold out your hand.
They will be there again tomorrow.
—
Reception
When it comes to family, there is never enough
self-corrected blindness, no turning away
from the relative ease with which we commit
each other’s deeds to memory. Much like setting a table.
When the time is right each place will be cleared:
sometimes picked up piece by piece, sometimes
swept asunder in a crashing swoop. (He or she who removes
the shrapnel depends entirely on the day of the week).
And there it was—you missed it—pinpointed across the room:
a glance, quick, obviously, but telling.
You are the stranger here. Your uttered disruption
draws lines of longitude somewhere between stranger to love.
No ship sails in a straight line. Familiarity looms
on the horizon. No—there. Just a bit lower.
—
Pulse
Somewhere between skin and the soul
a rope dangles
Punctured through the heart
or where the heart should be
a man drawn on a cardboard box
shakes his blank-faced fist
at the sun
or aftermath
fusing with the sidewalk like ghosts
of leaves
The exit wound holds its shape
what pours forth
clenches
pools
—
Calvin Olsen was born and raised in Meridian, Idaho, the small town that continues to inform his writing. He holds an MFA from Boston University where he received a Robert Pinsky Global Fellowship to translate in the Iberian Peninsula. His poetry and translations have appeared in Salamander, New Haven Review, SWAMP, eXchanges, and Lay Bare the Canvas: New England Poetry and Art, among others; and he has presented work at a variety of venues, including TEDxNewEngland and the Blacksmith House Poetry Series. He currently lives and teaches in Boston and can be found on Twitter @cal_olsen.
—
Featured image by Kenny Ong. See more of his work at flickr.com/kennyong. Prints available upon request.
