Emily Tian is a freshman at Yale University from Rockville, Maryland. She is the recipient of the Poetry Society of America's 2018 Louise Louis/Emily F. Bourne Poetry Award. Her work has previously been honored by the New York Times, the National Scholastic Art & Writing Awards, Princeton University, Johns Hopkins University, Gigantic Sequins, and the Claremont Review, among others.
Emily Tian
Hunting in November
Soon the phone wires will frost,
a last earful of gossip wobbling
in its pale slip. You wait,
trusting the alarm to elbow
through a crib of darkness.
Then, as the engine stammers,
you could almost believe
you are the only man alive.
I think you sit up a little straighter
believing it.
Each boot in the mud leaking from you
like a trail of crumbs, and for what?
The gold taunt of our door knob?
Morning hatches the same old questions
and you feed them leaves
skinned red and alive.
I am beginning to see that the dead
will never be slung to our doorstep.
The barrel of one year will always rest
against the shoulder of the next.
A mountain is a helmet
of indifference.
It shrugs at our office jobs,
your polyester shirt green and
bruised then gone, the
grouse drumming I am, I am, I am.
Dumb bird.
You will twist your head to listen.
Glass: A Journal of Poetry is published monthly by Glass Poetry Press.
All contents © the author.