From this hillside heaped with melon leaves
we watch a golden foil settle over the city,
the outskirt factories shuttling smoke out to sea.
Today after work, after many bad days at work,
I punched the banister into a gap-toothed smile.
On the news we heard of the innocent bystander
caught in a hail of bullets. We imagined
downy feathers in a pendulum descent.
You pull the wine from the rapid of a cold brook.
Exhausted stars recoil into night.
Our mouths, open and soundless,
taste peach on our tongues, a hint of clove.
About the Author
Jason Tandon is the author of three collections of poetry including Wee Hour Martyrdom (2008) and Give over the Heckler and Everyone Gets Hurt (2009), winner of the 2006 St. Lawrence Book Award for a first book from Black Lawrence Press. His poetry and reviews have appeared in AGNI Online, Columbia Poetry Review, Harvard Review Online, Esquire, Pleiades, Poetry International, Prairie Schooner, Spoon River Poetry Review, and on NPR’s The Writer’s Almanac. He teaches in the College of Arts & Sciences Writing Program at Boston University