Poet Island Press

---

Five Poems by Laurel Fuson

POSTED 2009-01-07 IN YOUNG WRITERS POEMS

Laurel is an insightful young writer out of the creative writing program at Oberlin College. Intensely aware of the world around her, Laurel's sense of place is central in her work. Written during her time on Paros, Greece, these poems reflect her communion with the Greek landscape and culture.

DREAMING ABOUT THE OTHER

When I think about going back,
to the thorny winter air, muddy
paths in frost-frozen ruts, the sky
muted or just turned off, I still
manage excitement. Because I know
that place. How it will recover. It will
push the heat up as if from the center
of the Earth, from its blown-furnace
heart, and laugh as we kneel, thankful.

The land will grow so lovely
that we will cease to think about it
in the richness of summer, leaves wide
over our heads, drinking beer
and lemonade, dreaming
fairy thoughts about snow.
The mornings will come, peach
juice, thick, sugar, the air like holding
your hand over a cup of tea, moisture
clinging a little uncomfortably.

In remembering I will forget
the wind and the lemon tree raking
branches against my balcony in the night.
The time I tried to climb the mountain
to get a better view, the dried scrub
grabbing my leggings. How I came down
through someone's yard, the goats
bleated and ran, a woman frowned
through my apology and I walked
the highway back to my apartment.

Keeping only the way I learned,
some, about photographs and the way
our minds are constantly taking them:
the neighbor’s baby, her split-second smiles more
honest than the ones we sustain, the words
in all those books matching the clear
light hugged close to the island,
the shuttered, broken doors
that still lead somewhere.

MY KITTEN GREW UP INTO A CAT

Orange cat, short hair,
plump, soft, shedding.
I imagine he is my cat
equivalent. We both
like warm sun beams
and cannot kill birds.
I read my book, he
sits on it. We stare
at goldfish for too long,
love autumn for its leaves,
wander but always come
home. And we need
love but rarely say so,
save our rage for
the night. I hear him
running circles chasing
the little gray, teasing
his sister, whom he loves
enough to cry out
when separated
on the other side
of the screen door.

FINDING MORE IN THE BLEAK

The sky is gray; it blends
more easily with the sea.
Her red jacket appears against the fog
She wanders out to the edge of the rocks
to look into the tide pools.
All caught up in place. Calm sea,
over-seasoned, crusted rocks.
She needs a lot of bland bread to eat—
the barren land, and distant lightening.
Wants to live, here, in lovely emptiness.
Quiet thunder like the end,
and the lone fisherman.

TOUCHING DOWN

I gave you half my shawl
last night because you were
cold and I was somehow blazing
a trail inside my heart,
trying to find you there,
or maybe I pulled you close
so that you could see
how to get in. Not that you
could have, or did. But you did
not call me beautiful, or put
your hand on the inside
of my thigh. You only
kissed me back. So I walked
the road with you, through
the construction site, the waves
rushing up in the wind, wondering
just where the lighthouse was
on this island, how the ships
could find their way
home.

WALKING NAXOS

Surely we all have trouble being curious
enough. Call the world to us, our smallness, and forget
to go looking for cloud-draped valleys
and the small white church.

Won't look at the leaves turned yellow in the town
in the mountains and remember home.
This may be how we learn to regret.

She wakes, and sleeps again.
There will be no sitting today.
No calm quiet, no light warming the room.

Later she will run down the street
buttoning her denim jacket tight,
and board the blue ferry at the port.

back ...

---