Walking Barefoot, August

By GAIL MAZUR

The flats mid-morning.
Fussy little house-hunting hermit crabs.

Razor clams, skate eggs, black mussels.
Sea glass frosted by the tides.

Far out, schooners, racers, sloops—
Serenity of their white white sails.

Day moon, round, faint, almost transparent,
Hovering in the pale blue sky,

In its orbit still so near the sun.

Seven years alone by the bay.

An old friend, a neighbor, stumbling,
Has lost her way on the sands.

There’s always tomorrow.
There’s always something left to lose.

Something here is blowing bubbles.
Something’s forever burrowing.

 

Gail Mazur has published seven collections of poetry. They Can’t Take That Away from Me was a finalist for the National Book Award. Zeppo’s First Wife: New and Selected Poems was the winner of The Massachusetts Book Prize and a finalist for both the Los Angeles Times Book Prize and the Paterson Poetry Prize. 2016’s Forbidden City is her most recent collection. Her poems have been widely anthologized, including in several Pushcart Prize anthologies, Best American Poetry, and Robert Pinsky’s Essential Pleasures. A graduate of Smith College, she has received fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts, the Bunting Institute of Radcliffe College, and the Radcliffe Institute. She was, for twenty years, Distinguished Senior Writer in Residence in Emerson College’s graduate program and now teaches in Boston University’s MFA program and at the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown, where she has served for many years on the Writing Committee.

[Purchase Issue 18 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!

Walking Barefoot, August

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.