mid century
novelty shifts the angle
of what passed for innovation
and libels the new millennium
in shades of modern avocado
and simple teak
what was a keen nostalgia
for an egg shaped elegance
and those clean primary
reds is now a blink
in the machinery of connection
a paper lantern nodding yellow
concessions to the exposed
beam of your adolescence
as if lighting up all that spent
relish will leave you no choice
but to lean into the pecan wood
console and lift the sound arm
to retire that wall of 33⅓
memos to yourself
track by track
Haunt Me
Half a century gone
and the Ouija board is still
uncertain. As if the whole
neighborhood of ghosts
traversed my geographic
map from outset to reason,
exiting its own expired alphabet.
Power of Attorney
I don’t think we should speak
until I can shore up my resolve
against the optimism that rides
me like a shadow, loots my own good
sense and folds a feeble charm
into my reply. This repudiation
is overdue, but what should ring
like iron truth pitched against your latest epic
fable falls to a silent incantation,
a hiss in the apparatus
of our conversation, a grace note harmony
to the myth you love to repeat.
That you now hold the lady in the tower
is new to both of us and though I cannot weave
her escape into any believable advantage, I see
now that you are a fairy come to defraud me
in both worlds and I must be Switzerland,
chilly, dispassionate and unarmed.
by Sara Clancy
Sara Clancy is from Philadelphia and graduated from the writer’s program at the University of Wisconsin long ago. Among other places, her poems have appeared in The Madison Review, The Smoking Poet, Untitled Country Review, Owen Wister Review, Pale Horse Review and Houseboat, where she was a featured poet. She lives in the Desert Southwest with her husband, their dog and a 21 year old goldfish named Darryl.
