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About this poet

George David Clark is the author of Reveille (University of Arkansas Press, 2015), winner of the Miller Williams Poetry Prize. He edits 32 Poems and lives in Washington, Pennsylvania.

Ultrasound: Your Picture

                 —Henry Thomas Clark, 10/7/14

We’ve framed an ultrasound
            of you and Peter

holding hands
            (or almost) in the womb,

your moon-bright arms
            crossed in a black balloon

with week, and weights,
            and heights in millimeters

penciled on the side.
            We say it’s good

that he, at least, was with you
            when you died,

that unlike us
            you’ll never know the why

of being lonely
            or what naked falsehood

feels like in one’s mind.
            You see, it’s false
                                                                                               
to say your death
            was somehow grace. It’s grace

that spared Cain’s life
            and later gave Eve other                                             

sons, despite creation’s
            wastes and faults.

I wish you could have known
            love’s aftertastes.

I wish you’d had a chance
            to hate your brother.

Copyright © 2018 George David Clark. “Ultrasound: Your Picture” originally appeared in The Hopkins Review. Used with permission of the author.

Copyright © 2018 George David Clark. “Ultrasound: Your Picture” originally appeared in The Hopkins Review. Used with permission of the author.

George David Clark

George David Clark

George David Clark is the author of Reveille (University of Arkansas Press, 2015), winner of the Miller Williams Poetry Prize. He edits 32 Poems and lives in Washington, Pennsylvania.

by this poet

poem
 No one lofts a loud out
             to the left field 

fencing with its ads
             for Meacham’s Auto

and McClintock Paints.
             There’s no bravado

at the plate at all.
             No southpaw deals

his slider for a strike
             no one appeals,

since no one lent
             the
poem

anything over zero is zero
anything over one is itself

a bed over zero
is a funhouse mirror aimed

at a cloudy sky
a sky and its clouds over zero

a storm over one
is an infinite storm

a night over one
is a kiss over zero

and the minute hand eating its tail