I pull the last radishes
then bed the boxes down
with hay. This is the season
of distances: weak light
in the lilacs, muffled bass
in the idling Accord.
My father a plaque that rises
barely above the grass.
That last time strangely
available: vinyl booth, castanets
from a jukebox we couldn’t see
and the pale underside
of his wrist flashing . . . .
Cleaning out his apartment,
I found a watch
in his underwear drawer,
chipped bezel, leather band
worn thin. It belonged
to his father. Once, as a kid,
I watched him press the cool
back of it to his ear, then
his cheek, I didn’t understand.
I bend and gather up
the bitter greens. My old Trek
clutters the doorway, gray
flecked with gold. Another loop
I’m caught in: suffering
and calibration. The punishing
miles, then the hours adjusting
the neatly clicking gears.
Poem of the Week
Tuning
Edgar Kunz
Edgar Kunz is the author of Tap Out, a New York Times New & Noteworthy pick. A former Stegner fellow and NEA fellowship recipient, he lives in Baltimore, where he teaches at Goucher College. His second collection, Fixer, is forthcoming from Ecco/HarperCollins.
Originally published:
June 15, 2022
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