Mary Ann Samyn
THREE POEMS
Came and Went
The river was narrow there and not deep.
Crossing was actual, and felt good.
Wildflowers I had thought were many moods
were here all contentment.
I chose the tiny orange one; I wasn’t lost.
You could say the trees, the underbrush, the dust
called my name.
Except there was no backstory; no trick.
I didn’t get turned around;
I didn’t think to pray.
Poem with a Dolphin in It
Wouldn’t you know it: the timing is off;
the lighting not quite right; I call home.
It’s a trick to be convinced things matter.
I mean, a gift. Again I dream my father’s face.
A bird drinks from the pool. A song floats over.
“Nobody loves me like you do” is how it goes.
One channel meets another, and anyone can see—
logically—all this goes to the ocean.
Times I Talked to Him About the Weather
Times I said nothing at all.
Often I tidied his room, or lay my head on his chest.
All of it, gone now.
It happens to everyone, but why him?
The sky grays. What was forecast. Same as yesterday.
I make a list of accomplishments I would like to have.
I review the list of dreams.
In one, he was a little higher. On a ladder, seemed like.
Heaven could be that. You never know.
At the cemetery, I talk to him like he’s there.
Elsewhere, also.
Hi, Dad to the three cardinals in the dogwood,
to the last patch of ice melting so handsomely.
A scientist, he explained things.
A believer, he had doubts.
What I wouldn’t give to see him again, late nights,
sitting in his chair, thinking it over.
Mary Ann Samyn is the author of six books of poetry, most recently Air, Light, Dust, Shadow, Distance, winner of the 2017 42 Miles Press Prize, and My Life in Heaven, winner of the 2012 FIELD Prize. She is a professor of English in the MFA Program at West Virginia University.