The Glacier
Issue Two
Winter 2023

FIRE LAKE

Why does a memory flicker back? 
That time in Charlottesville, just a visitor, I went alone 
to James Monroe’s house, ducking down to get in… 
the feeling, mostly—.

Or when Bob Seger turns up on a student’s literary family tree,
and I’m sent driving down M-22, the big lake beside me.

Merwin reading “Lament for the Makers”:
I get it now, with my own large number in heaven,
as my mother put it, waiting to count herself among them. 

Nothing else to say to her, I’d say, a little bored,
she’s nice, pointing to the framed Mary 
I’ve known since childhood.

The ribbon comes loose from the grave blanket, 
so I tie it again, sweet little drifts of snow tucking my parents in. 
My prints are the only ones. Feet and knees…
No coyote, no rabbits, not today. 

When Ola asks about my word, do I have one?,
I settle on the tufted cushion of no. 

My mother was always so happy to see me,
even when I was not much interested.
Regret comes in its own good time, clears a path.

BAD DEAL

A big wind came and woke me from a dream of a cushion. 
No, really. I always dream of a soft landing.
I tell myself to get over it.
It’s a developmental piece—for them, for me. 
The space between the title and the poem
is where I make my little nest. 
This is poetry, is all I’m saying. 
If you find yourself here, you’ll stay. 
I haven’t given up completely.
Completely has its hands folded in its lap.
Imagine driving away for the last time, though.
Quickly and fast, says one newscaster.
Quick and in a hurry, says another. 
That I can do, I think. That, at least, I can write down.

HOLD ON, HOLD UP

Not so fast, I should have said
to the bee or whoever it was,
left a welt alongside my eye.
Unbecoming. UNbeCOMing.
I repeat a syllable at a time. 
Blocks of the alphabet, feels like,
in my mouth. Stress patterns. 
I’m a teacher, can’t you tell. 
Summer’s not over, I want to say
to the leaf that falls at my feet. 
Try it, you might like it comes 
the reply. So goodbye, I guess, 
to sister rabbit darting back 
under the hedge. Perfect example
of why misery isn’t worth it. 
What I had sought out, dictation made 
sold out. Efficient reprimand, 
like my father was so good at. 
I felt loved and righted. Miss that. 
Little Free Library solves problems too:
Your Fussy Baby; Baby Whisperer.
But first, in the category of romance, 
everyone’s favorite: High Stakes;
The King of Lies; Ask Anyone. 
Which is just what I’ve been doing,
I reassure myself, while my dog, 
the older one, my fussy baby, waits, 
unaware soon she’ll be costumed,
a floppy witch’s hat, point drooped 
over one eye, super cute, and still 
very much, and wisely, herself.

COLLECTED WORK

Lost years in a cabinet, cheap and heavy.
Everything gotten rid or yet to go.
Reams of why.
I guess I don’t care.
If it occurs, you must be ready. 
Stuffed animals on a shelf.
The bear from when I was too old.
How did it come to this?
I suppose I could walk away tomorrow.

MARY ANN SAMYN’s six collections of poetry include Air, Light, Dust, Shadow, Distance and My Life in Heaven. She teaches in the MFA program at West Virginia University and can be found on Substack where she writes Cake & Poetry ( https://maryannsamyn.substack.com ).

BACK

ISSUE two HOME