"Aubade" by Ed Adams

Ed Adams

Ed Adams

Ed Adams holds degrees from Goddard College and Antioch University. He has published poems in numerous literary journals including Barrow Street, Exquisite Corpse, Fence, G. W. Review, Lilies and Cannonballs Review, The Quarterly, in the U.S., Poetry Review, Shearsman in the U.K. His work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, book manuscripts of his work have made finalist for The Walt Whitman Award and for The Brittingham Prize in Poetry. He grew up in Philadelphia and in Rochester, and has lived for a while in New Mexico, in Taos and now in Santa Fe, where his daughter is attending high school.


                                                Open door, table, glass of
                                                orange juice, dear hand

                                                her eyes teem and flash:
                                                on the computer.

                                                Tugging a loop
                                                through a slip of cloth

                                                I move around
                                                and behind:

                                                on the screen
                                                the letters are irregular

                                                knot at my throat
                                                looking down on
                                                a cemetery in the snow.

                                                Shrinking I parachute
                                                to the screen


                                                Beneath my shoes the letters grow:
                                                oof, and I’m among them

                                                They’re buildings and houses
                                                with windows and doors

                                                there’s activity

                                                Hungry I scheme
                                                find work

                                                my job
                                                is to name the streets

                                                I’ve a quota to fill:
                                                Gray & Yellow Avenue
                                                Awry Drive

                                                I’m summoned:
                                                people want Peach Tree Lane
                                                they want Green Valley Road

                                                I board an airplane:
                                                passengers act like
                                                everything’s routine

                                                there’s tension

                                                I look out the window:
                                                scientific fairytale clouds

                                                from this distance looking down
                                                I can read discouraging sentences

                                                I cover my right eye
                                                with my right hand:

                                                            A      Z       R
                                                                 L      Q

                                                No: O

                                                For shelter I upload
                                                an acceptable list


                                                The black crisp air
                                                thrusts an obelisk
                                                in the square

                                                Walking with head down
                                                I notice my index finger

                                                Looking back at the obelisk
                                                I think of a rocket

                                                look up and point:
                                                All the stars are

                                    y                                              i
                                                e                      l                                   t
                        e                                  g                                  n                      s