Untitled [The more I go, the harder it becomes to return]

Jennifer Denrow

The more I go, the harder it becomes to return. To anywhere. There is no one at the ocean this morning. I walked by the campsites and smelled eggs and pancakes. And there were sweet Oregon cherries and watermelon. I wonder if I can go back—what purpose there would be in it—or in any other thing? There's something expensive both ways. Yesterday a woman told me to get a tide schedule and if the people refused to give it to me, I had to insist. She usually gets hers from the Hilton but I don't know where that is so I just imagine the schedule. There is a tide. I can tell that much about anything. What's before me, what isn't. How it got there is a mystery involving only itself—I have no part in that, none at all—my job remains in the thing as it is in the moment it's before me, having left all of its other places, having come this far to show up at all.

Copyright © 2011 by Jennifer Denrow. Used with permission of the author.

Copyright © 2011 by Jennifer Denrow. Used with permission of the author.

Jennifer Denrow

by this poet

poem
You were the white field when you handed me a blank
sheet of paper and said you'd worked so hard
all day and this was the best field you could manage.
And when I didn't understand, you turned it over
and showed me how the field had bled through,
and then you took out your notebook and said how each
time you