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  • What Lies Behind and Ahead
  • Cally Conan-Davies (bio)

This Storm

This monstrous monotone of storm surge—bluebags of argon from Portuguese Men o' Warand birds, flung, feather-thrashed, surf-chewed,washed up along the tide-line's furious scrawl—this wrecking wind recalls another scene,a tropic night, drinking rum with sailors.One of them, not old, but full of cancer,grips my hand."That night in '98,when six mates never made it back to shore,that ocean belt their boats to bladder wrack.My first race, too, sick, clinging to the rail,scared shitless, till the veteran skipper roared—Hang in there, son, this storm won't last forever.A man's words, sweetheart, they can change the weather."

When Tilly Nearly Drowned

A king tide gouged a cliff into the sand,and, cloudy-eyed, my dog fell in the water,dark and strong, fast she fell from sight.I dived into the current, dark and rushing,but once begun

                             as I am now beginningto stroke in measured lengths, I kept my breath,and then I looked

                             as now I look to writefrom far beneath the waves toward the light. [End Page 191]

I did not know before how things appearto lowered eyes when love, at once, is deepand gone from sight: the animal shape grows clearwhen darkness rises through the drowning lightand shadows form.

Her form is what I save.

Ulysses Blue

When he left he gave me the tattered wingof a Ulysses in a lacewood boxhe'd milled and pieced and glued.When he left he shook the papery skinof a snake lying in the heap of sawdustby our king-sized bed.When he left he smashed the nightbefore against the ground.The glass in my feet smelt of rum.When he left he told me what to do.If I am caught in wateryou have to reinvent the art of kedging:let me go to the end of my ropelet me drop anchorthen pull yourself to where my backdarkens with exhaustionand when your fingers bleed into the thingthat tightens between uspull harder till the rope coils at your feet.Let ants clean the soft body inside the shell.No matter how long dead this Ulysses,the pale lid opens and unloosesa gently lifting, undefeated blue. [End Page 192]

Cold

Whenheat creeps from the earthand color is doused by snowand months will go till sunbreathes on the back of the buffaloand the forest burns with lightand hummingbirds gorge on flowerscrowding the slope of the mountain,

a human canlie down with what is done,the carcass and the feast,and draw from teeming darknessthe signature of a swan.

Dead Reckoning

Whatever lies ahead I'm ready for it.The moon is milk. I move along the darkand floating dock, over the coiled rope, shore-lit.Whatever lies ahead I'm ready for it.Only the stars, flaring with ends, foresaw it—my compass-love no more a fixèd mark.Whatever lies ahead I'm ready for it.The moon is milk. I move along the dark. [End Page 193]

Cally Conan-Davies

Cally Conan-Davies studied in Melbourne, Australia, before moving to the United States in 2012. Her poems have appeared in numerous periodicals including Poetry, the New Criterion, and the Hudson Review.

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