Lauren Camp lives in a farming village in New Mexico. Her first poetry collection, This Business of Wisdom, was published by West End Press. She is the editor of Which Silk Shirt, a blog about poetry, and producer of Notes To Cecil, an evolving installation of spontaneous poetry and composed photographs. On Sundays, she hosts "Audio Saucepan," a global music/poetry program on Santa Fe Public Radio.
Today, snow gloved the trees like a city of hands.
We shoveled to find the end of the world, shaking junipers
until their powdery pollen flickered
and fell on our heads. We dug out a canyon, a lacuna.
Entered the sky through a door of dirt-gristled snow
and the clock said there were hours.
The floor of the earth told secrets
so we put our ears to the manuscript of dirt and listened
as the lips of the world read us their sources.
I heard you whisper thanks
to my millions of cells. In an extended silence, you kissed me
in the oddest places: my right hip, above my fractured
coccyx, on my heels—
the parts of my body that go unnoticed.
Heaven can be generous. It gave us space to push
so I pushed against you and heard
what was not audible: bird tracks against white
and white moonlight:
the trance of memory, body, double-edged need.
We returned to light stroke and spread and leaned in;
inside we hardly knew what we’d left.
We rested in the method of finding our way
one limb at a time. The day tolerated our searching.
Insulated with dilating dark, we soaked
in each other as snow existed in another dimension.
After a while, when we saw only straight again,
we emerged with the capacity for endurance.
Snow stacked over us a little taller.
That’s what happened: we were sweeping ice
from the footprints
when we fell into something crystalline: a sort of perfection.