Running into the enemy, in the middle of the night,
one on one, all alone, without any others around,
mud grass moonlit footfall insomniacs or deserters
a long time-lapse scare slow to give way
to some silent mutual
brotherly agreement, and I walk this way, you that—
it is not the time for anyone’s death yet—
Withdrawn commanders and their charges sleeping it off
somewhere in separate
bunkers, on opposite outskirts of the city, where the fennel keeps its sightlines
messy, smelling of sweet anise.
A forest floor busy soil scent to the air
A familiar otherness in tall watery stalks next to a fallen branch lean-to
They could discard their sincere uniforms
arms linked, thighs touching
Like newborn mammals born blind
but not deafened—
they stumble, paw, miss
they have the immobilities of newness
they cannot yet show their love too passionately
Gillian Conoley is a poet, editor, and translator. The author of ten collections of poetry, including Notes from the Passenger (Nightboat, 2023) and A Little More Red Sun on the Human: New and Selected Poems (Nightboat, 2019) Conoley received the Shelley Memorial Award from the Poetry Society of America, a National Endowment for the Arts Grant, and a Fund for Poetry Award. Conoley has taught at the University of Iowa Writers’ Workshop, the University of Denver, Vermont College, Tulane, and Sonoma State University. A longtime resident of the San Francisco Bay Area, she is editor of VOLT magazine. Her translations of three books by Henri Michaux, Thousand Times Broken, appearing in English for the first time, is with City Lights. Conoley has collaborated with installation artist Jenny Holzer, composer Jamie Leigh Sampson, and Butoh dancer Judith Kajuwara. https://www.gillianconoley.com
