"sailboats built from a corral, some corrugated tin"

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Issue 15: To the New

Issue 14: The Double Issue

Issue 13: Free Form

Issue 12: The Necessary Ear

Issue 11: The Necessary Eye

Issue 10: Out on a Limb

Issue 9: The Missing Body

Issue 8: The Lily

Issue 7: Passages

Issue 6: No More Tears

Jamie Ross

Pleine-Aire, in a Palette of Eclipse

The shadow
holds our shape, two stones
on a crumbling fence of weather, canvas
pressed to a sea-blown table, wind
hissing in the trees. A white-gas lantern
trowels its plaster over splintered wood. Even

at noon, we feel the whir of owls, nighthawks
ghosting through a spent barn, smell hay
molding in the winter rafters. Draw
tufts of wool, last year's shearing, from
wire splayed around us. Yet the sky

still wheels its low lamped clouds, coastal
scenes of Holland: a landscape
made for sheep and children, sailboats
built from a corral, some corrugated tin, the
rolling drums of horses running, water
falling over Brittany—

where Gauguin, Monet, easels and umbrellas, their
women wrapped in cloth-like wings

sit with us. A gray beach. Some random
spots you might call color. Brush-strokes hardly
different from the off-shore breeze
of dampened fires, distant cattle, churning
the relentless surf, dragging
ketches up the gravel. The paint

chips into layers: A laminate of mist, then smoke
that haunt its own opacity. No piano. No
guitar. Only the rain our daughter blows,
birds across a bottle of fog.


Bringing in the Name

Now the graces gather
in the meadows near Petaca
above the Mesa Vista down
a crossroad's swollen
river where the hot springs
steam. My cousins
are in vapor with the youngest
here expecting
and the fluming shrub-oak
around Cornelia turn. Her
lips bright red so full
they lift each sister's shadow you
can hear our bluetick Aldo twenty
coyotes barking
as all dogs will do. When
a woman threads her water let
us sing into her belly every
cattail bursting
silky luff that floods the hayfields
with the tractor still in fescue
for a last September pick-up
on this golden freshness morning just-
dropped bales so
green and fragrant that I
call them out in buckgloves hay-
hooks Hanna's new-brewed coffee just
like children Sara! Juan! Elena! I
lift each one to God.


The Puzzle

A sweetness, she says, strange now
how the air tastes, in these wharf-

shapes that form the room. Like sugar
into water, for the spinning birds, a kind

of sticky pink and then the ocean, gray
again, they alternate. Like boxes—waves

of boxes, the black and then the white, each
one lisping Give a color, just a sound, the

one that goes across

Her table, with its lozenge tray, sea-green
pills. A silent glass of water, that

never will be emptied. She drops her pencil
in my hand. Canoe, she says, eleven letters—
canoe, maroon canoe