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About this poet

Jill Osier’s chapbook from won the Poetry Society of America’s 2017 Alice Fay Di Castagnola Award and is forthcoming from Bull City Press in 2018. She is also the author of the chapbooks Should Our Undoing Come Down Upon Us White (Bull City Press, 2013), winner of the 2013 Frost Place Chapbook Competition, and Bedful of Nebraskas (sunnyoutside, 2012). She lives in Alaska.

February

Sometimes a flag quietly appears
and leads one to a camp in the snow.
 
Oh, I am sick. I fade, I fall,
I curse this month, all it wants
 
to be. Its lot is the same
each time, unthawed.
 
Yet it taunts.
Dreamer month!
 
Another is just as warm,
as firm, as close to sweat and sigh
 
as I was, and this month
knows it. This month
 
sits close-lipped
and wise before the fire.

Copyright © 2018 Jill Osier. Used with permission of the author. This poem originally appeared in The Southern Review, Winter 2018.

Copyright © 2018 Jill Osier. Used with permission of the author. This poem originally appeared in The Southern Review, Winter 2018.

Jill Osier

Jill Osier

Jill Osier’s chapbook from won the Poetry Society of America’s 2017 Alice Fay Di Castagnola Award.

by this poet

poem
Not every day but most days that summer

I went calmly and quietly and climbed

to the sixth floor of the library and walked

not fast and not slow but with purpose

down the last row and reached

almost without looking to the same

place on the shelf and pulled out

the large book and carried it to a chair
poem
On the day they killed the last caribou,
I was in love—and I did not know
caribou or cities or the needs of either.

I did not know scilla, and did not know a new love
would be hired to trim the grass around it. The blue flowers
came up through the grass like the grass remembering.

This new love and I, we drove
poem
Folks would talk about it,
and even after I lived
in that mountain town
months, a year, even after
getting close with the girl
from the pharmacy,
guys from the woods, I did
not know.

I waited to somehow divine
what it was. Be invited. Still
I imagine a great expanse,
a meadow, high above the town,
of tiny