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About this poet

Cynthia Zarin is the author of Orbit, forthcoming from Knopf in 2017, and The Ada Poems (Knopf, 2010). She teaches at Yale University and lives in New York City.

Skating in Harlem, Christmas Day

To Mary Jo Salter

Beyond the ice-bound stones and bucking trees, 
past bewildered Mary, the Meer in snow, 
two skating rinks and two black crooked paths

are a battered pair of reading glasses 
scratched by the skater's multiplying math. 
Beset, I play this game of tic-tac-toe.

Divide, subtract. Who can tell if love surpasses? 
Two naughts we've learned make one astonished 0— 
a hectic night of goats and compasses.

Folly tells the truth by what it's not— 
one X equals a fall I'd not forgo. 
Are ice and fire the integers we've got?

Skating backwards tells another story— 
the risky star above the freezing town, 
a way to walk on water and not drown.

Excerpted from The Watercourse by Cynthia Zarin. Copyright © 2002 by Cynthia Zarin. Excerpted by permission of Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced without permission in writing from the publisher.

Excerpted from The Watercourse by Cynthia Zarin. Copyright © 2002 by Cynthia Zarin. Excerpted by permission of Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced without permission in writing from the publisher.

Cynthia Zarin

Cynthia Zarin is the author of Orbit, forthcoming from Knopf in 2017, and The Ada Poems (Knopf, 2010). She teaches at Yale University and lives in New York City.

by this poet

poem
Bone-spur, stirrup of veins—white colt
a tree, sapling bone again, worn to a splinter,
a steeple, the birch aground

in its ravine of leaves. Abide with me, arrive
at its skinned branches, its arms pulled
from the sapling, your wrist taut,

each ganglion a gash in the tree's rent
trunk, a child's hackwork, love
poem

Because you like to sleep with curtains drawn,
        at dawn I rose and pulled the velvet tight.

You stirred, then set your hand back on my hip,
       the bed a ship in sleep’s doubled plunging 

wave on wave, until as though a lighthouse
      beam had crossed the room: the vase

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