1/23/08 Kim Bridgford

23 Jan
Kim Bridgford

Kim Bridgford


The raven turned, and offered up an eye,
the blue-black of his shoulder like a drape
that shivered with a sorcerer’s escape,
or with the layered look of poetry.

One thing could be another thing, or all—
the way the eye could speak for who he was,
while being grounded in the physical.
Between the two was metamorphosis.

He perched on SUVs where families thrilled
to watch him preen. A horn, and then he rose,
his movements like the putting on of clothes.<
The poem is like this: both the moment stilled,
and all anticipation hanging there.
the poem’s the raven once he’s in the air.

* previously published in The Iowa Review

Kim Bridgford is a professor of English at Fairfield University and editor of Dogwood and Mezzo Cammin. Her books include Undone, nominated for the Pulitzer Prize; Instead of Maps, nominated for the Poets’ Prize; and In the Extreme: Sonnets about World Records, winner of the Donald Justice Prize. She is currently working on a three-book poetry/photography project with visual artist Jo Yarrington, focusing on journey and sacred space in Iceland, Venezuela, and Bhutan. She is the Connecticut Touring Poet for 2007.

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Posted by on January 23, 2008 in * A Few Poems, * Past Features


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