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About this poet

Born and raised in New York City, Jonathan Thirkield graduated from Wesleyan University and the University of Iowa's Writers' Workshop where he was a Truman Capote Fellow.

In 2008, his collection The Waker's Corridor was selected by Linda Bierds for the Walt Whitman Award, presented by the Academy of American Poets.

He lives in New York.

Design for a Silver Box in the Shape of a Melon, 1918

Jonathan Thirkield
after Peche

In sheet metal or silver shallows
filled with these:
hollow, floating
where some assumed votives
would be lit. Or
lanterns.

Do you see the time of day? With still
some red to
flush the waders,
scatter against a few
boats, and fire
cannons

Distantly, first. When we see the flare,
we listen.
Sand buries at
our ankles. They appear,
the apples or
melons

Printed along the wallpaper, half
submerged in
their setting, brushed
dark with stems, the silver
flats folded in
fans. Too

Many of the waders grasp the stem
and pull off
the top of an
apple or melon, so
the base fills with
water

And sinks. Silver leaves from the stem. One
small woman's
pearl earring drops
like so many others
in the shallows.
Eardrops.

 
I met a woman in Viennese
glass. What was
in her jewel case?
A shade that turns over
a blue trellis.
Flower

Theater (or garden) on the flattened
silver wall,
a gray screen where
boats fire, the blush falls
and dyes a cherry 
chime.

First published in New American Writing. Copyright © 2008 by Jonathan Thirkield. From The Waker's Corridor (Louisiana State University Press, 2009). Used by permission of the author.

First published in New American Writing. Copyright © 2008 by Jonathan Thirkield. From The Waker's Corridor (Louisiana State University Press, 2009). Used by permission of the author.

Jonathan Thirkield

Jonathan Thirkield

Born and raised in New York City, Jonathan Thirkield's first collection of poetry The Waker's Corridor was selected for the Walt Whitman Award

by this poet

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Boat toy boat law boat low in Melodie's arms. She blows green water ripples, she squeezes humming blots from bows, her lungs. She goes

No. No honey. She bolts high birds filled with fancy over her pale Melodie. Now darling leave, let it set. Let it boat now. Mother links

Me, Melodie lapsed on a string.

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