| LYNN WAGNER |
| No Blues This Raucous Song | |
| 2009 |
| Lynn
Wagner's poems deftly honor our unruly impulses. She has a marvelous ear for rhythmic
urgencies of the American tongue and a wicked wit. No word goes unnoticed on her
shrewd yet passionate watch. —Baron Wormser |
Unjust
Spring
The skunk cabbage have already upstaged the winter woods—
their hungry innards create a solitary heat, enough
to burn a hole in this
season's dolor while
my green desire remains underground, the earth so compacted
it seems the bulbs will never breathe. The irises
in the flower man's white
plastic bucket
shrivel and frill. They miss Costa Rica and are all
bruised tongue.
Even the daffodils disappoint—their deep trumpets
soundless,
fingery stigma and anthers
pining for honeybees. There is never enough.
And though I buy
a clutch of tulips, it hardly consoles. They remind me
of my loneliness. I strip off
their broad, imploring leaves and cram
them
into a vase so tall they knock heads
and dare not open.