Race Point

Cynthia Zarin

Fanfare of pipes, the clangor marking home—
            up too early, I settle old scores with myself,
each crossed out loss a speaking chimera,

your cinquecento flower drawings,
          opening their mouths. Yesterday, the sand
violet, then aquamarine, the Coast Guard

turret a behemoth Bastet, cats’-eyes
            dim against dusk’s lid of cloud cover.
But what’s a compass with no compass rose?

Truro, Starksboro…the omphalos
           of old place names; the dog, trembling
at my feet, knows not to leave the car

for fear that she’ll be left behind. Her remit—
          to love whomever touches her.

Cynthia Zarin is the author of, most recently, Two Cities: Essays on Venice and Rome. Next Day, New and Selected Poems will be published next year.
Originally published:
March 1, 2022

Featured

A Faceless Compass

Johannesburg’s haunted streets
Ivan Vladislavić

Case Studies

A critic tracks herself
Margo Jefferson

Geoff Dyer

The essayist on not having a career
James Surowiecki

You Might Also Like

The Long Run

Linda Gregerson


Poem of the Week

Plum Madrigal

Lisa Russ Spaar

Newsletter

Sign up for The Yale Review newsletter and keep up with news, events, and more.