Charlie Clark
How I want my father to die
has changed
in a June
not
this June
this morning
hushed
as breath
before a painting
of a saint having
something crucial
removed
with eyes that still
and familiar
uplifted blue
no not a saint’s
pains’ staged
portrait
quieter still
more
a still life
two milk-cloud
pots holding
drooping splays
of orange
flowers up
a cotton
cloth’s knotty
white trim
beneath
what this refuses
to be is
a petition
never the less
I look up
and see
some clouds
and shadows
shift
thoughtfully
I think
not here
not now
this now
proceeding
as uncertainly
as my
syntax
let this
now be
for thanks
let it be
just
another June
cooler
than most
and home
behind the house
in the netted
stretch
of the garden
the compendium
of him
bent
lip curled
whispering
box scores or
head filled
all at once
with the smell
of walking
Grand Blvd
in late July ’67
carrying
a satchel
of bread
and milk
tiny horsehair
brush in hand
trying
to pollinate
his tomatoes
no the corn-
yellow buds
brandished
by five young
vines of
zucchini
because zucchini
is a simple-
enough
word
I never the less
for three whole
years forgot
so already
it feels familiar
when my mouth
opens and
from it
the proper
word refuses
to dislodge
Charlie Clark studied poetry at the University of Maryland. His work has appeared in New England Review, Ploughshares, Threepenny Review, and other journals. A 2019 NEA fellow and recipient of scholarships to the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference, he is the author of The Newest Employee of the Museum of Ruin (Four Way Books, 2020). He lives in Austin, TX.
Return to January 2021 Edition
has changed
in a June
not
this June
this morning
hushed
as breath
before a painting
of a saint having
something crucial
removed
with eyes that still
and familiar
uplifted blue
no not a saint’s
pains’ staged
portrait
quieter still
more
a still life
two milk-cloud
pots holding
drooping splays
of orange
flowers up
a cotton
cloth’s knotty
white trim
beneath
what this refuses
to be is
a petition
never the less
I look up
and see
some clouds
and shadows
shift
thoughtfully
I think
not here
not now
this now
proceeding
as uncertainly
as my
syntax
let this
now be
for thanks
let it be
just
another June
cooler
than most
and home
behind the house
in the netted
stretch
of the garden
the compendium
of him
bent
lip curled
whispering
box scores or
head filled
all at once
with the smell
of walking
Grand Blvd
in late July ’67
carrying
a satchel
of bread
and milk
tiny horsehair
brush in hand
trying
to pollinate
his tomatoes
no the corn-
yellow buds
brandished
by five young
vines of
zucchini
because zucchini
is a simple-
enough
word
I never the less
for three whole
years forgot
so already
it feels familiar
when my mouth
opens and
from it
the proper
word refuses
to dislodge
Charlie Clark studied poetry at the University of Maryland. His work has appeared in New England Review, Ploughshares, Threepenny Review, and other journals. A 2019 NEA fellow and recipient of scholarships to the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference, he is the author of The Newest Employee of the Museum of Ruin (Four Way Books, 2020). He lives in Austin, TX.
Return to January 2021 Edition