Two Poems by Liza Katz Duncan

By LIZA KATZ DUNCAN 

A White House against a blue sky, with a watertower on top.

Raritan Bayshore, New Jersey 


At the Old Aeromarine Site

First the marsh grass came, then the motherwort,
then bitterberry and honeysuckle. Blackbirds,
gulls and grackles built their nests.
Mourning doves call from the eaves
of the old factory, closed during the Depression,
though the building seems to be somewhat in use:
a No Trespassing sign, an Elton John song
coming in from someone’s bike stereo.
By the overgrown gate, a few trucks are parked,
and a trailer advising: Never Give Up
On Your Dreams! Own a Street Rod.
A friend sent me here to search for a rookery
of wading birds, but I haven’t found anything.
If they nested here at all, they’d be up to 90 feet high,
or buried in thickets of salt grass. Others, too, come here
when they don’t want to be found: on the guardrail
overlooking the bay, two teenage lovers
share a kiss, and then a joint, huffing
smoke into each other’s eyes, then startling
onto their backs, laughing. Late spring
a kind of emptying out: why
do I imagine they’re saying their goodbyes?

A river carves through a marshy patch of land

Keeping Track

This week’s unseasonable frost killed
the magnolia before bloom. Brittle-brown
frostbuds waiting to drop.

On his podcast, Joe says take notes,
record observations. Keep track
of changes over your lifetime,

your children’s, your grandchildren’s.
Through the open window, a train whistle,
fire trucks, and the laughter

of children across the creek, a creek so small
Google Maps doesn’t register it as water.
I always take the same photo,

though there will be no children, no
grandchildren—whose lifetime, then,
is this for? I give myself permission

to be supremely selfish. At the creek, a catbird
on a cairn. Crabs skitter across the muddy
shoreline. Felled trees will become the pages
where we chart swells and falls, flames and ashes.

 

Liza Katz Duncan is the author of Given (Autumn House Press, 2023), which won the Autumn House Press Rising Writer Award. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in AGNIAbout Placethe Kenyon Review, Poem-a-DayPoetry, Poetry Northwest, and elsewhere. Liza grew up in New Jersey and holds an MFA in Poetry from Warren Wilson College. She teaches English as a Second Language in New Jersey public schools.

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!

Two Poems by Liza Katz Duncan

Related Posts

Tethered Hearts

LARA ATALLAH
The city is angry with love. Its sidewalks echo Beirut, and a life there, long-forgotten, languishing in the rearview mirror. Everywhere I look, an almost-déjà-vu skims the walls of my mind. Buenos Aires is Beirut, is Paris, is an aubade to the lost and never found. Down by Recoleta, Haussmann buildings dot the avenues.

New York City skyline

Lawrence Joseph: New Poems

LAWRENCE JOSEPH
what we do is // precise and limited, according to / the Minister of Defense, // the President / is drawing a line, // the President is drawing / a red line, we don’t want to see  / a major ground assault, the President says, / it’s time for this to end, / for the day after to begin, he says, // overseer of armaments procured

rebecca on a dock at sunset

Late Orison

REBECCA FOUST
You & I will grow old, Love, / we have grown old. But this last chance // in our late decades could be like the Pleiades, winter stars seen by / Sappho, Hesiod & Galileo & now by you & me. // Let us be boring like a hollow drill coring deep into the earth to find / its most secret mineral treasures.