Sight
Lauren Camp
This isn’t how I intended to begin. A woman
in a white dress. Comăneci’s routine on the
uneven bars. How a friend gets her contacts
to the river. The tumor larking an ankle. Why
did you come, I ask everyone. Everyone has
photos of sunset that summer. Moving away
from the plains. A legal brief, a will. How you
knew she would say, shouldn’t we? Glass
doors into a hotel lobby. Fitting a key to the
indifferent frame. That season I babysat for
Danielle and her birthmark. A condor laving
the canyon. My very first diary: pink with a
lock. What are you looking for? Two men
taking turns taking photos of selves as a layer,
a promise. The couple on the bus in the
wobbled tip of an argument, building a fault
line. My father’s bald head and why didn’t I
run my small hands over it. The spine of a
cloud. The courtesy and plop of water as it
takes each notch. How many times you write
that you miss us together. So small yet I
figure you’re hollering. Jupiter through a
telescope. My grandmother’s cowbell in
Tulsa. The camels in Luxor. Satellite images
of the past. And now darkness.
First published in In Old Sky (Grand Canyon Conservancy, 2024).
This poem is one of many I began during a month-long stint as Astronomer-in-Residence at Grand Canyon National Park. My focus was on the pristine natural darkness that spanned across and above this wonder of the world. I often write into a subject somewhat obsessively, interested to see what comes out when I’ve exhausted the easy response. “Sight” takes on a large collection of objects and experiences that continue to unfold and deepen for me. Every one can be summed up as ephemeral, though they left me with residual memory, and with things to turn over and question further.
LAUREN CAMP serves as New Mexico Poet Laureate. She is the author of eight books of poetry.