"Materials for a Gravestone Rubbing" by Matthew Wimberley

Facebook
Twitter
Instagram
January 10, 2023 

Materials for a Gravestone Rubbing

Matthew Wimberley

I have long wanted to be starlight in spring
and the late snow that lingers there, coming down
at Harpers Ferry over the river or gathered 
on a windowsill on third street in Brooklyn 
when I was twenty-two—the potpourri 
of sky the wind carries after a storm. 
The gray darkening on a far ridge. If you are reading this
there is still a way. I can take your smooth palm in mine
and lead you toward a distant city and a night
when you were on the mountain and dreaming of the other world
and we can walk together past the pre-war homes 
converted now to low-rent apartments for college students
or workers come in from long days on a road crew,
coveralls draped over the backs of kitchen chairs
and the light swaying just so. We can go on—
along the cracked sidewalks above the train tracks
that can’t exist again even as the grasses come up between them
and look through a fog and a single pair of headlights
making definite beams in the material cold. 
No moonlight to get netted up in on the surface of the water
no traffic at this hour just the scraps of paper blown
into gutters and the electric hum of streetlights,
a few voices, which almost walk like footfall down alleys
overgrown with briars and creeping vines, their crude
latticework against the brick and the exhale
of a bartender on a smoke break and the smoke
which still drifts. Now it must be all worn through
but then it was barely remarkable though I stop
to look back at the homes and at snow melt on roads
the flat glitter on the black road, the moiré pattern 
yet to be captured by language—and for a minute believe
in something as my stepfather believed in the smell of fire
whenever he left in the middle of the night
and returned before dawn and spoke to no one, didn’t
wake anyone up. Sometimes I feel that alone, 
that pure, as if looking back at myself
through the scrim of time and you are there 
standing in our kitchen at this hour and I can almost 
hear you and the first singing caught-up there in the back 
of your throat. Lately I’ve stopped worrying about the end. 
Each day my hand is smaller on your shoulders. New birds
still return and the hillsides green all around, the stars 
have traveled over the horizon and in the blink 
of an eye you are here—grape-vine charcoal in your hand;
little hyphen I have become.

Copyright © 2022 by Matthew Wimberley. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on January 10, 2023, by the Academy of American Poets.

Subscribe to the Poem-a-Day Podcast 

  

“I began writing this poem last year on a drive north from my home in western North Carolina, cataloging images as they appeared. It was the snow at Harpers Ferry that opened the way for me to move through other moments in my life, things I thought of as ordinary, overlooked. Months later, in a little cemetery beside my daughter’s preschool, this poem finally came together. The poem is a confrontation—not with death, but life, and is a kind of conversation between a parent and a child.”
Matthew Wimberley

Matthew Wimberley

Matthew Wimberley is the author of Daniel Boone’s Window (Louisiana State University Press, 2021) and All the Great Territories (Southern Illinois University Press, 2020). He is an assistant professor of English at Lees-McRae College.

Daniel Boone's Window

Daniel Boone’s Window
(Louisiana State University Press, 2021)

“Beyond the East Gate” by Daniela Gioseffi
read more
“The Secret of Light” by James Wright
read more

Thanks to Tyree Daye, author of Cardinal (Copper Canyon Press, 2019), who curated Poem-a-Day for this month’s weekdays. Read or listen to a Q&A about Daye’s curatorial approach and find out more about our guest editors for the year.
“Poem-a-Day is brilliant because it makes space in the everyday racket for something as meaningful as a poem.” —Tracy K. Smith

If this series is meaningful to you, join the community of Poem-a-Day supporters by making a gift today. Now serving more than 320,000 daily subscribers, this publication is only possible thanks to the contributions of readers like you.
 
From Our Sponsors
Copyright © 2023 The Academy of American Poets, All rights reserved.
You are receiving this email because you opted in via our website.



Our mailing address is:
The Academy of American Poets
75 Maiden Lane
St #901
New York, NY 10038

Add us to your address book


View this email in your browser

Want to change how you receive these emails?
You can update your preferences or unsubscribe from all Academy messages.

Older messages

"I'm Not Faking My Astonishment, Honest" by Paige Lewis

Monday, January 9, 2023

Looking out over the cliff, we're overwhelmed Facebook Twitter Instagram Support Poem-a-Day January 9, 2023 I'm Not Faking My Astonishment, Honest Paige Lewis Looking out over the cliff, we

"Winter Remembered" by John Crowe Ransom

Sunday, January 8, 2023

Two evils, monstrous either one apart, / Possessed me, and were long and loath at going: Facebook Twitter Instagram Poem-a-Day is reader-supported. Your gift today will help the Academy of American

"A Gull Goes Up" by Léonie Adams

Saturday, January 7, 2023

Gulls when they fly move in a liquid arc, Facebook Twitter Instagram Poem-a-Day is reader-supported. Your gift today will help the Academy of American Poets continue to publish the work of 260 poets

"off the shore of oneself as in . . ." by Renia White

Friday, January 6, 2023

sometimes you can't stay on your own mainland. Facebook Twitter Instagram Support Poem-a-Day January 6, 2023 off the shore of oneself as in . . . Renia White sometimes you can't stay on your

"To the Young Second Lieutenant Standing Behind Me in Line" by Rob Greene

Thursday, January 5, 2023

No one looked after me or my brother back then, no CPS, Facebook Twitter Instagram Support Poem-a-Day January 5, 2023 To the Young Second Lieutenant Standing Behind Me in Line Rob Greene at the Keesler

You Might Also Like

New and Old #155

Friday, March 29, 2024

Friday roundup and commentary ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏

savourites #85

Friday, March 29, 2024

shellfish, annie hall-style | spontaneous song | field trips ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏

Letters mingle souls

Friday, March 29, 2024

10 things worth sharing this week ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏

"The Jesus Fridge" by Jeffrey McDaniel

Friday, March 29, 2024

Your fridge died last week. The light Facebook Twitter Instagram Support Poem-a-Day March 29, 2024 The Jesus Fridge Jeffrey McDaniel Your fridge died last week. The light still came on when you opened

Genres are a funny little concept, aren't they?

Friday, March 29, 2024

Skimm'd with the best deals of the week — Check out what we Skimm'd for you today Subscribe Read in browser March 29, 2024 Daily Skimm Skimm'd with the best deals of the week Update

Cindy Crawford’s Airport Pants Are The *Best* Alternative To Sweats

Friday, March 29, 2024

Iconic. ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌

My Top 3: Regular Little Indulgences

Friday, March 29, 2024

Witty subhead ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏

Google Wants You to Use AI for Your Next Vacation 🤔

Thursday, March 28, 2024

Don't Trust These 'Reset Password' Pop-ups on Your Apple Devices. Google has released several new ways you can use AI and other tools to help plan your next vacation, including the

GOP congresswoman blames Green New Deal for bridge collapse

Thursday, March 28, 2024

The Green New Deal, for the record, does not technically exist. ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏

Your Zodiac Sign Should Prepare For Love Affairs In April

Thursday, March 28, 2024

Plus, Lili Reinhart's peach glam look, Bustle's beauty awards are here, & more. ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌