I was in the yard working

when I heard, through the

open kitchen window,

my wife tap a spoon shank

on the edge of a cooking pot.


Of course, it was my mother I heard,

as if transported to years ago,

me a boy, playing in the yard, dusk falling,

my father clipping hedges,

my hunger just starting to gnaw.


Then one of my boys ran past crying,

“Mom? Is it dinner yet?”

and I, brought back to the present,

hedge clippers open wide,

knew that that boy—

not a duplicate of me

or owned by anybody—

was, nevertheless, in a living line

of felt continuity,






I lean my elbows,

idly, on

an uneven café table

and everything


chinking, sliding saucer

tinkling ice cubes in a glass that

clinks a sugar dispenser—and I’m

awoken from

my sketchy, troubled, already-

vanished reverie of elsewhere,

my raised elbows

resettling—and resettling me to—

the durable

flatware, glass, saucer.


Mark Belair


Mark Belair’s poems have appeared in numerous journals, including Alabama Literary Review, Atlanta Review, The Cincinnati Review, Harvard Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, Poetry East and The South Carolina Review. His latest collection is Watching Ourselves (Unsolicited Press, 2017). Previous collections include Breathing Room (Aldrich Press, 2015); Night Watch (Finishing Line Press, 2013); While We’re Waiting (Aldrich Press, 2013); and Walk With Me (Parallel Press of the University of Wisconsin at Madison, 2012). He has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize multiple times. Please visit www.markbelair.com

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