Marvel
Can I, at the tree? The same one I’ve seen for ten years
slowly growing before me? Can I, at the light? The red
one that glows green every fifteen seconds? Go, I say
to myself as a child. Believe once more in the field.
Believe in the uncut hay. The wild strawberry. The grave.
Something inside myself is hardening. I’m a bell, tin thick.
Can I, at the moon? For two nights straight, it has bellowed
its ivory tune. Thin as a nail. Curved as an aperture. Inside
me a fountain unruptured. I walk the path as a worn thing
thrumming. Can I, at invisibility? Can I, at criticism?
I bloom like snow clearing the valley of trees. Each day,
wash what needs washing and put to bed the rest.
Here, a happy accident. An arrest. A designation carved
in the porcelain bark of cells. Can I, at earth? At gravity?
Without skin, I’d prism into fragments. I have. I can.
*
Originally from Pennsylvania, Alicia Hoffman now lives, writes, and teaches in Rochester, New York. She holds an MFA in Poetry from the Rainier Writing Workshop and is the author of three collections, most recently ANIMAL (Futurecycle Press). Her poems have been published in a variety of journals, including Thrush, Trampset, The Night Heron Barks, Tar River Poetry, The Penn Review, Glass: A Poetry Journal, Typishly, Radar Poetry, and elsewhere. Find her at: www.aliciamariehoffman.com