Poetry Breakfast

To the Dead Man in the Road
by Sara Clancy

Every summer in Tucson this happens,
a hazard of heat that greases the equation
of whiskey and asphalt and gives us permission
to suspend comprehension as we drive by.

We wonder at the obstruction,
as if you are roadkill, an unlucky coyote
looking for water in the jewel box
of the afternoon. Until we recognize the rumple
of clothing, the perverse angle of limbs
in the wash by El Camino del Cerro and skid
to the shoulder to call 911.

In the morning we trawl the paper
for an outcome, your name, an arrest,
the family notified, a donation in lieu of flowers
but find nothing — our curiosity
no better than a hook into the sad
anatomy of your wounds.

Sara Clancy graduated from the writer’s program at the University of Wisconsin long ago. Among other places, her poems have appeared in The Madison Review, Teemings, Houseboat and Owen Wister Review. She lives in the Desert Southwest with her husband, their dog and a 20 year old goldfish named Darryl.

Spider Solitaire
by Sara Clancy

Against protocol, the red queen
follows the black king. The tactic
is to uncover hidden resolve and I focus
on the comforting binary

of winning. Move the three of clubs
and start a run that covers four minutes
of a difficult conversation and when I find
an ace to complete the suit

I admire the perfect array
of consequence. Yes, even as I listen
while you read me the results
of your tests, I will tick off a sensible

strategy arranged in ascending
priorities: every contingency
accounted for, every single
possible card played

Sara Clancy graduated from the writer’s program at the University of Wisconsin long ago. Among other places, her poems have appeared in The Madison Review, Teemings, Houseboat and Owen Wister Review. She lives in the Desert Southwest with her husband, their dog and a 20 year old goldfish named Darryl.

The Sea Monster in Holmes Bay
by Sara Clancy

Look for it from Lucy’s window
on an autumn day and what you see
instead is mist, though you are sure
the creature is more than mad
allegory, a fable passed down
between horizon and sill.

On a colder morning than this,
when traps are empty and lobster
boats disappear between tufts of sea
smoke and the sky’s indigo echo
of glassware in her cupboard,
you may see within the halo

of your rosewood telescope
the beast lift its granite back
to reveal the aberration
of Hog Island.

Sara Clancy graduated from the writer’s program at the University of Wisconsin long ago. Among other places, her poems have appeared in The Madison Review, Teemings, Houseboat and Owen Wister Review. She lives in the Desert Southwest with her husband, their dog and a 20 year old goldfish named Darryl.

reservation required
by Sara Clancy

an ordinary cafe window
watches the daylight
long enough to concede
that no moon will
sweep its prosaic crystal

inside the room may speculate
in the music of glassware and hurry
until some perfect theory
bubbles between the contours
of conversation and shapes
you almost recognize

but color itself commands the rain
and resets the evening’s imperative
twisting the geometry of intimacy
until you know that you prefer
the canvas of an empty restaurant

and to be out on a cold night like this
looking in

Sara Clancy graduated from the writer’s program at the University of Wisconsin long ago. Among other places, her poems have appeared in The Madison Review, Teemings, Houseboat and Owen Wister Review. She lives in the Desert Southwest with her husband, their dog and a 20 year old goldfish named Darryl.

buyer must bring imagination by Sara Clancy
~ after Marc Chagall

clearly this house should be
upside down and balanced
on its gable, while goats
play green fiddles
and old men hunker down
in a sky of gypsy colors

there should be a supine
bride floating over the threshold
to meet the artisan who
nailed each warped clapboard
to canvas in a fable passed down
from elder to beast

they would meet
in an upstairs room
framed in orange scented
light, their bed draped
with the precarious balance
of fabrication

and their lips never touch
as they glide past each other
recasting each tired proportion
with an arabesque in the air

Sara Clancy graduated from the writer’s program at the University of Wisconsin long ago. Among other places, her poems have appeared in The Madison Review, Teemings, Houseboat and Owen Wister Review. She lives in the Desert Southwest with her husband, their dog and a 20 year old goldfish named Darryl.