Gregory Luce, author of Signs of Small Grace, Drinking Weather, Memory and Desire, Tile, and Riffs & Improvisations, has published widely in print and online. He is the 2014 Larry Neal Award winner for adult poetry, given by the DC Commission on the Arts and Humanities. In addition to poetry, he writes a monthly column on the arts for Scene4 magazine. He is retired from National Geographic, works as a volunteer writing tutor/mentor for 826DC, and lives in Arlington, VA.
Warm Canto
for Emily
She reminded me of you,
sitting there in front of
the coffeeshop—a bit taller,
maybe a bit older—still,
composed, a small spark
in the deep blue eyes,
gazing straight ahead
at a point somewhere between
my left shoulder and one hundred
miles away.
I hadn’t thought of you
for months but your face appeared
now, looking down, half-smiling
and slightly sideways, your eyes shy
with just a glint of élan. Suddenly
the street noise diminished.
Dolphy’s clarinet notes floated
gently above Waldron’s light-
stepped fingerings in the air
behind my head.
You slipped away abruptly,
emailing goodbye. I had
no hold on you, neither
father nor lover, but you left
a little fissure in my chest
which throbs occasionally
when I see or hear something
that reminds me of you like
now as I tried not to stare,
still hearing Waldron now
in step with Ron Carter’s
fingers plucking their way
down the cello’s neck.
Always a War
(after Ilya Kaminsky)
There’s always a war
but it’s always somewhere else
where I don’t know anyone
anyway plus look how much
bread costs now and chicken
and milk, not to mention
the price of silence.
