Gemology

By MARIE GAUTHIER
They hack their way through the wild
kingdom of the back yard
while she alights on a chair, her book
unopened on the grass, more
rest for her glass than her eyes,
which follow to foil: spoiled
moods, spilled blood, numinous
harms yet undreamt.
Bronze-headed boys goldenrod-tall,
hunched-over treble clefs,
they dig pockets into the dirt,
rummage their hands around cool clay
seams, pulling root threads loose.
They’re not hunting the usual
buried treasure, but rocks crab
apple small, which they crush
onto other rocks smaller still:
it’s the quartz inside—the cosmos
dust of impact, the refracting jagged
hearts—they want.
Blow upon blow only rocks collide,
fingers curled back from the edges
as the centers crack—Spanish red
swirls in her glass, wine-eyed sunset
casting its glow as if to diffuse
the shattering, the inevitable crash.

 

Marie Gauthier is the author of a chapbook, Hunger All Inside, and recent poems can be read in The MacGuffin, Cave Wall, Hunger Mountain, Magma Poetry, and elsewhere. She won a 2008 Dorothy Sargent Rosenberg Poetry Prize in addition to an honorable mention in 2010. She lives with her husband and two young sons in Shelburne Falls, Massachusetts where she works for Tupelo Press and co-curates the Collected Poets Series.

[Purchase your copy of Issue 02 here.]

From the beginning, The Common has brought you transportive writing and exciting new voices. We are committed to supporting writers and maintaining free, unrestricted access to our website, but we can’t do it without you. Become an integral part of our global community of readers and writers by donating today. No amount is too small. Thank you!

Gemology

Related Posts

Caribbean picture

Self-Portrait in The Caribbean

PAOLA ASSAD BARBARINO
Sometimes I am emboldened, / I decide to stand in the people’s balcony / I decide it is Maundy Thursday I decide to place a priest behind me that can speak to the people behind / my back / I decide to put out the fire and light my throat / scream

Feltspade

ELIAS SADAQ
I serve out my conscription / sleep in a bunk bed / for four cold months / in the engineer regiment at Skive Garrison / in a room with three other men / I fuck the colonel / the only sign that time is passing / is a pile of snow outside the window / that grows smaller

Book cover of Fifty Mothers

Mother is a Kind of Holding: Jenny Qi interviews Preeti Vangani

PREETI VANGANI
With vignettes, I could plumb its narrative arc to become a force propelling the book forward. It also felt haunting yet warm that the mothers kept reappearing throughout the life of this grief. That repetition created a chorus of voices that angers and despairs, yet cradles the speaker.