Kyle McCord
Nocturne for Allison with Dancers
Because heat lightning
sears femurs
along the cloud mass,
these smoky phantoms
which flock like catbirds
darkening then alighting
from the yard’s boughs,
I bring the dog inside
and let him snuggle close.
He curls until his hind legs
rest just below his maw.
They are as white and silky
as the opera gloves
of Degas’ Song of the Dog.
Rains stutter against
the yellowing paspalum
fleshing the highway’s culverts.
These days are measurable
by threads pets gifted us,
too short and course
to be of use.
Strange to think of them.
Strange too to think
Degas’ bodices and basques
spindly as Queen Anne’s Lace
let you understand
the loss of your mother.
These ordinary wonders
do not leave us―
a wolf beside
my unguarded throat,
ragged acacias
above a ball field.
Run-off inundated
a whole diamond last spring.
And once the waters receded,
what remained were muck
and silt, lines of motion
where eddies whirled.
It must have been beautiful,
this ronds de jambe.
How Degas lost himself
painting women
young enough to be girls.
They look lost amidst lacey petals,
delphinium too tired to care
about the artist.
They know he can’t offer
them immortality
only oil on canvas,
pastel on paper,
the wax corpus of a goddess,
nameless dervish.
Kyle McCord is the author of five books of poetry including You Are Indeed an Elk, But This is Not the Forest You Were Born to Graze(Gold Wake 2015) and Gentle, World, Gentler (Ampersand Books 2015). His third book was selected as one of five books of the year by the Poetry Foundation blog. He has work featured in Boston Review, Denver Quarterly, Gulf Coast, Ploughshares, TriQuarterly and elsewhere. He’s received grants from the Academy of American Poets, the Vermont Studio Center, and the Baltic Writing Residency. He co-edits iO: A Journal of New American Poetry. He teaches at the University of North Texas in Denton where he runs the Kraken Reading Series.
Return to July 2014 Edition
Because heat lightning
sears femurs
along the cloud mass,
these smoky phantoms
which flock like catbirds
darkening then alighting
from the yard’s boughs,
I bring the dog inside
and let him snuggle close.
He curls until his hind legs
rest just below his maw.
They are as white and silky
as the opera gloves
of Degas’ Song of the Dog.
Rains stutter against
the yellowing paspalum
fleshing the highway’s culverts.
These days are measurable
by threads pets gifted us,
too short and course
to be of use.
Strange to think of them.
Strange too to think
Degas’ bodices and basques
spindly as Queen Anne’s Lace
let you understand
the loss of your mother.
These ordinary wonders
do not leave us―
a wolf beside
my unguarded throat,
ragged acacias
above a ball field.
Run-off inundated
a whole diamond last spring.
And once the waters receded,
what remained were muck
and silt, lines of motion
where eddies whirled.
It must have been beautiful,
this ronds de jambe.
How Degas lost himself
painting women
young enough to be girls.
They look lost amidst lacey petals,
delphinium too tired to care
about the artist.
They know he can’t offer
them immortality
only oil on canvas,
pastel on paper,
the wax corpus of a goddess,
nameless dervish.
Kyle McCord is the author of five books of poetry including You Are Indeed an Elk, But This is Not the Forest You Were Born to Graze(Gold Wake 2015) and Gentle, World, Gentler (Ampersand Books 2015). His third book was selected as one of five books of the year by the Poetry Foundation blog. He has work featured in Boston Review, Denver Quarterly, Gulf Coast, Ploughshares, TriQuarterly and elsewhere. He’s received grants from the Academy of American Poets, the Vermont Studio Center, and the Baltic Writing Residency. He co-edits iO: A Journal of New American Poetry. He teaches at the University of North Texas in Denton where he runs the Kraken Reading Series.
Return to July 2014 Edition