George David Clark Q&A on his poem ‘Black Igloo’
George David Clark talks about the form of his poem “Black Igloo.”
George David Clark
Earful
I’d like to pick this little beige flower of cartilage, one of the two I’ve grown, and place its long red stem inside a crystal vase to decorate the haunt your voice recovers in on nights like this when silence has its say but neither of us wants to be alone. […]
Ballet Boot Camp
In the pilot episode, called “Deer at Nightfall,” a rolling wash of headlights introduces twelve contestants on the shoulder of a highway. The host’s remarks dissolve behind the ugly purr of traffic, but his command to Make it beautiful is captioned on the screen. First up, a long-legged blonde: white tights beneath […]
Eyelash
Awfully late and we were naked when I plucked it off your cheekbone, bee-leg thin and hard to see and oddly heated on my thumb. Scratched across your grainy shadow, it ignited like a match. You drew close and blew the flame out. Petals bloomed against my hand, a yellow rose, […]
Black Igloo
The shadows thrown by snowcaps here are thin as hose or onionskin, and what the clouds cast massive over town is not so proud that it won’t scatter once the South howls in. At two the street-lit lawn still squints our shades; by dawn the focal watts of sunshot want […]
The Prison Beneath the Pacific
How deep? Some six thousand meters, in meters. In light years it’s further than Vega. Deep as any man’s pride and then some— you can hear the Earth move her bowels. Men sink in a blue submersible: eight sets of restraints and an airlock that drops off new inmates like roe. There’s always an odd […]
After Making Love We Hear Birdsong
It’s been a pretty athletic performance, if I do say so myself, and as we finish I’m winded, just holding Jennifer close, and about to start kissing the salt off her neck when the birds pipe up at the window. All night we left it open to the breeze— more than warm already now […]
Yestermorrow
Hallelujah, it’s nobody’s birthday! Nobody’s wedding and nobody’s wake! For once the glib calendar’s dumb. These brave hours have sloughed off their date. No unions are striking, no voters are polled, though if anything dawn has come early. While the coffee is yet to be ground, our displeasures dissolve prematurely. We’re a people […]