from the English Honor’s Thesis, Clockwork, by Mary Rockwell ’11

MAPPED

As soon as Spring gave in, the air conditioning
was busted. So we rolled down the windows
of my ‘85 Mercedes—blew steam instead.

In Burlington summer launches without proof,
given the loss of watches, the freedom of a route
that leads straight out of town, directions

scrawled on a paper napkin on my lap.
Why plan anything when given such a nice list
of what to expect, how to expect where to go.

When your purpose is to be purposeless
you can expect Monday to be as free as Sunday,
certainly can expect moments to be as free

as soft‐serve ice cream, bought from the convenience
store for nothing but the price of my own name,
which the owner already knows by heart.

Everyone always seems to know things
I do not tell them, but surely gossip is not gossip
if it’s true: people only talk about what they want

to believe about the people who always leave.
My heart turns over those days too many times,
plays them like board games against my logical mind,

pays too much mind to another time, the past—
the type of light touch that lingers in a rush.
Nothing ever does stay long enough.

We never wanted to feel young then,

never think we are that young now.

—–

—–

NOMADS

Catching slimy snails in red plastic pails,
my brothers and sisters and I spent summers
on the far edge of Kennebunk beach.

We searched beneath the smooth underbellies
of salty rocks, scoured the shallow water, spinning
in tidal pools, much warmer than the ocean.

The busiest intersections and lanes revealed
where the crustaceans had traveled—I imagined
stuck in traffic on their routes to work, or visiting friends

who stayed in different neighborhoods down shore.
We stayed until the beach emptied, our pails full.
Never worried that there might be nothing

left in Maine one day. Nothing for us to find.
We carry our home, carry it on our backs.

—–

—–

VISITORS

When my sister takes my hand, I follow
along the curb of the littered sidewalk, jump
whenever the concrete breaks for pavement.

We dodge the shifting shadows of curious customers
who crash into crowded shops. Why would we go inside
when we trust shopkeepers must keep their custom

of selling porcelain ashtrays shaped like California,
plastic snow globes that storm winter weather
over the same sun‐soaked Bay we visited yesterday.

Chinatown is always Chinatown, no matter what
town we have found ourselves in. No matter how many
years and miles have worked their way between us.

This time, only we seem different—
tourists of our own home, the new home,
a home made apart from any familiar place.

To cross the sidewalk, we leap from stripe to stripe.
Children again, with no place to go.

from the English Honor’s Thesis, Something Leads Him Down, by Uyi Agho ’11

He contemplates his loss

November was long,
after his wife died. That day,
the Doctor
put on his loafers and
walked outside.
It was snowing
but he wasn’t cold
and he wanted to be cold.

Alone he is unknown as the bare branches
and unrecognized as a lover long gone,
frozen puddle-reflections startle him
as he shuffles with hands in trouser-pockets,
he does not know that man on the other side.

In stride he thinks
he resembles the sky
as the sun wanes,
a smudge dark
as it creeps toward
evening.
He drowns stars
in his solitude.

As he walks beside an old river,
he likes to imagine himself slipping through
the thin layer of silver sleet, where the surface blurs
and he sees her eyes peering through.
Where he smiles before the glass freezes over,
the corners of his lips falling with the snow.

He knows that he
will dread
the morning,
when it comes,
waking alone
with memories
and forgetfulness
settling over his mind
in a thick dust.

Tonight, he weeps at the river
that was alive last summer.
Only now is he surprised by its death,
slow water trapped beneath stiff ice.
Just now he recalls when it ran, clear and lively.

—–

—–

Lost

The day he gave her the journal
he found her in the bedroom
unlike her self.
She said she wanted to write
things down.

Dante,
she had called
in a voice that put him on edge,
she was curled on her side
on top of the covers,
her eyes wide,
her body unmoving.

I had the dream again
she said,
of the dogs.

The hell-hounds were here,
down by the bed.
I could hear them panting.

—–

—–

Returning

In Boston, it is fast,
the city people
crowd in and out
and leave you
behind clutching
belongings
and your mind.

The T speeds,
a bullet, with the fast
ones, not you,
you sit under the plastic
awn with the bloated posters
of missing children
and victims of abuse
and wait
for the next one
knowing
it is your first day
back
and you are already late.

by Mary Rockwell ’11

———

knock the magpies knock beaks
on our windowpanes morning rains
outside on land grained
inside I lie next to you
we are the sole breathing
bodies in an airless room
a marvel how your spine curves
just as the dirt road out front
later we will try to sit outside
to paint more Madonnas
to make new what has aged
to make true moments entombed
replicas sown of romance we are
unnamed masters of stolen masterpiece:
what we have made is not earnest
there are doors and foreign locks
keys with heavy tassels
there are windows here kept closed
guarding against the clambering birds

———–

———–