Poem of the Week | October 25, 2011
Shara Lessley: "Test"
This week we’re proud to post Shara Lessley’s poem, “Test,” from our latest 34.3 issue. Lessley is a former Stegner Fellow. Her awards include an Artist Fellowship from the State of North Carolina, the Diane Middlebrook Poetry Fellowship from the Wisconsin Institute for Creative Writing, an Olive B. O’Connor Fellowship, the Tickner Fellowship, and a “Discovery”/The Nation prize. Lessley’s poems have appeared in Ploughshares, The Kenyon Review, The Southern Review, The Cincinnati Review and Alaska Quarterly Review, among others. Her collection, Two-Headed Nightingale, is forthcoming from New Issues in 2012.
Author’s Note:
In 2009, my husband and I shared with friends and colleagues news of our then-pending move to the Middle East. Given the region’s political climate and its representation in Western media outlets, our announcement was met with both apprehension and excitement: What would it mean to reside in a constitutional monarchy? How would I fare without speaking Arabic? As expatriates living in Jordan, would we be safe?
Now over a year into our stay in Amman, I continue to confront myths about the Middle East — as well as its realities — on a daily basis. The Explosive Expert’s Wife, the manuscript-in-progress from which these poems are taken, aims not only to examine and dispel the darker fears and prejudices associated with the region (“Advice from the Predecessor’s Wife”), but also to celebrate the beauty and mystery of a place where spring brings black irises and “even the olive trees breathe / green.” The counterparts to such ex-pat poems are those featuring stateside explosive ranges (“Test”), government labs, and American terrorists like Eric Rudolph and the Unabomber.
Test
I know the secret hemispheres of
to the explosives range in the dark.
you’re prepping the day’s fourth shot.
white in my mouth, white its thorn
you crimp a blasting cap, jam it
pack collapses: 700 steel ball-bearings
sputters overhead, noisy-winged
stripped thickets. Half after three
up my back as the shovel uncovers
its eyes locked in shock, as if caught
where the dead go, only that
by supper, the hem of your pants
surveying the ground – asphalt four feet
damage takes its greatest toll. In another field,
the maples, my agitated heart.
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