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Issue 1 2001

Dwelling By Constance Merritt   Mortals dwell in that they receive the sky as sky. They leave to the sun and the moon their journey, to the stars their course, to the seasons their blessing and their inclemency; they do not turn night into day nor day into a harassed unrest. -- Martin Heidegger I wished as men wish: "May this day be different!"/ The birds were wishing, as birds wish -- over and over,/ . . . / "May this day be the same!" -- Randall Jarrell Dear God, this dusk your sky has gone salmon and slate blue, and this alone would be blessedness -- to lie here in the quiet intent upon a page I cannot read,          yes,   this alone would be blessedness -- not only salmon sky and this your bluest hour, but more so, grace that turns these tired eyes windowward to search the common day.   I think that I could live joyfully in days, in seasons and in days, but it's a long walk to freedom and history's a blood hound at my heels.   (The river is wide I can't cross o'er Neither have I Wings to fly . . . ) Meanwhile, the future loads its shiny revolver, holds cold metal flush against the temple of blessedness; the present shatters:      fear          and worry, hope      and scurry,         plans, plans, plans, plans, plans; the gift a burden, a stone in the belly where breath and sun had been . . .   *   The day as gift, the day as burden; Whose wish she woke with: bird's or man's   What could all that matter After the shattering (Shuddering) She imagined?   And it was not the future She so feared, Nor was it the past, But the world that waited   (Rowdy commerce And loud Clamoring) --   Crouched, she would have said, Crouched like some soul- Hungry mechanical beast --   Just outside her door, A beast that would (Of this she was quite sure), Were she to rise and take the staircase down . . .   *   Long since, Her eyes have drained The final dregs Of color from the sky.   Inside the colors Warmed her; left her calm.        No, She would not rise, Would not go down, But would remain   In the house of light, Where birds chitter And sing each morning, Their passionate wish Her wish. Constance Merritt   Constance Merritt is the winner of the 1999 Vassar Miller Prize in Poetry for A Protocol for Touch, her first collection of poems. Her sonnet sequence, "Song: At The Edge of The Sea" receivef the 1999 Hugh J. Luke Award from Prairie Schooner. Back to table of contents