Aevan Gibson, Oxford, Mississipi, USA
The Fortune-Teller
I was a boy when the palmist
Said I'd be someone. In the cut, oaks lie felled,
Years among them. I'm still here,
Serving coffee.
I am in love with our delivery man and his coat,
The nap of the suede so smooth.
Knolls surge beneath the grass where I lie.
The body soon to wane, as molting leaves;
Then I am all things,
And no one.
Ventura Homecoming
All the birds cry fire,
And the mild sky is a gown tearing
From a slip of thigh as it shows.
Well, God forgive me, I'm a lark
That moves like the sun bends to my wing.
Who is given the time to weep?
On this morning,
When from some awning, you emerge
To smoke or maybe to drink
A little water,
Its coolness pleases the throat
That says nothing of its want,
That dares not sing.
Norman’s Suite
A king to a knight
Said bring me the heart of this country,
And he traveled unreturning through years of fog.
I saw you last in a field
Where your skin was reddened, and the bare day
Speckled gold on your clothes.
I miss you like fire.
But I would not see you now as you are,
Indoors-pale and searching,
In a room, searching.
Aevan Gibson is a poet and photographer from Oxford, Mississippi. As a community-supported artist, she has earned writing grants from the Yoknapatawpha Arts Council and performed for Quasar, a grassroots artists' collective. Her work is informed by the American landscape and by the working-class experience.