February 27, 2010

from Men In Correspondence—

The traffic shakes her nerves in blanch light.               Nevers, I’m leaving yous.   Her eyes, when she glances at me gazing at our daughter, full of expanse.                 —reaching that point where the shadings of a subjective perception—so distant reality as to render her

“out of touch”. Which brings me to a jetty                                   Come  here once and you’ll agree to take that upper bar and leave it.

The vinyl skips in that place.  Here we wear our records down.  I hear a skip

in the sound and cringe.  For lack of a better pause.  I sit

in the blanch light and look, my plants.  Knowing they are shrinking in the dryness. Elite hotels become places of saving         if only you and I had the money.                                             He took her to Bahamas, Bermuda, Mexico

where she often cramped and hurled.

These lettered marks, camouflage of.              Clicks of remorse move on the shore.  Miles carry me across and the dividend.           Rings fill with remorse and gather to a scary thought.  I have age spots                           light from a west-faced window.                  I feel infinitely west-faced, as do people who study pioneers.

Auburn hair in blanch light.                                   The crane dipped down; came up dropping  hook into the hold

with a sling full of mail. I was in Norway with my head in a snowbank

as my skis went merrily on their own down the mountain when I was supposed to be in                                                       for my briefing—ferocious—but couldn’t reach me—cables piled high in London,

some angry, some pleading, then

She has amazing hair. The sun burns through my shirt, right to the scab.

I warble and empty.  Earth sign, word nerd—it all makes sense.             Why can’t I stop looking at her? I thought you would be afraid. Can I hold her? We’ve just calmed her down. Now, back to a jetty. I am west-faced.     Pioneers through a sunset. There is something on my face and no baby would touch it. My voice a knell in mind.

To find a man’s letters

Meagan Lehr holds an MFA in poetry from The University of Arizona.  She lives and teaches composition in Tucson, AZ.  The poems here are selected from a full-length series.  Her work is forthcoming this month in Arch Literary Journal.

3 Responses to “MEAGAN LEHR”

  1. Lisa Cole Says:

    Meagan, I really like these. I can’t wait till your manuscript is published!

  2. sara long Says:

    she is my favorite

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