The Bright Ages

Sometimes I think I brought this on myself
By loving Bruce Hornsby's song Every Little Kiss
(As Sara Evans sings it) too much -- but you are
The Proclaimers' 500 miles away not a thousand
And not, thank God, Chrissie "Akron" Hynde's
Two thousand. It is gray as Ohio out today,
Both here and in your corner of Appalachia
Where they used to make brick and now make
Willie Nelson come pretend the town's his.
When we talk I want to be deep inside a golf ball
With no work noise or flashing lights
To take me away from that ripple of laughter,
Is that what is known as an abandonment issue?
It's the heart of April, the bright ages
Are grinding spices in the mortar, to help us
Become immortal so this time apart won't matter,
Will be like the blink rain takes to canalize
The hills of California, the dust of Mesopotamia,
The cabbages and radishes of our heartland.

Jordan Davis writes about books for The Nation and the TLS. He divides his time between New York and Athens, Ohio. Find him online at

Boxcar Poetry Review - ISSN 1931-1761