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About this poet

Rae Gouirand is the author of two books of poetry: Glass is Glass Water is Water (Spork Press, 2018) and Open Winter (Bellday Books, 2011), winner of the Bellday Prize. She holds an MFA from the University of Michigan and is a lecturer in the Department of English at the University of California-Davis. 

Long Exposure

On that last day, we read images taken
from a moving car, listening

to the artist speak of wanting that way
time stretches things out

readable in the frame
so the image caught is the image itself

passing, then of how
she experimented with how long

to keep the shutter open. When things
line up or sit atop another, I join

a lump there, join the bottom of myself.
You sit beside, stroking my hand

those moments, first squinting at long skies
over Laramie then nodding.

Copyright © 2018 by Rae Gouirand. “Long Exposure” originally appeared in the winter 2018 issue of Michigan Quarterly Review. Used with permission of the author.

 

Copyright © 2018 by Rae Gouirand. “Long Exposure” originally appeared in the winter 2018 issue of Michigan Quarterly Review. Used with permission of the author.

 

Rae Gouirand

Rae Gouirand

Rae Gouirand is the author of two books of poetry: Glass is Glass Water is Water (Spork Press, 2018) and Open Winter (Bellday Books, 2011), winner of the Bellday Prize. She holds an MFA from the University of Michigan and is a lecturer in the Department of English at the University of California-Davis. 

by this poet

poem

What if: stone is what
you get. A gun of stone. What if

the table beneath it were:
& the walls catching the sound. What

if no one knew: you were
around. If people came: from stone

& found only that.
What if stones were: deaf & mute

& cold. What could be

poem

You say intimacy breathes.
I drop in.

I know the sexiest
sentence there is—the most

erotic. I know it
like I know the last moment

wants to draw us
closest.

If we could say it doesn’t go
plainly as that

knowing the most intimate
line there is

poem

         after Obergefell v. Hodges, summer 2015

I still have a question to ask—
what I don’t know is which words might compose it.

I know it lives, but where it might begin—
I have to squint like I do as it downpours

in the mountains; I cannot read the road.
Driving after