Jared Carter

Andromeda

It’s still there. Has always been there.
         Instead, it’s we
Who cannot see, through all the glare
         and puffery

That dim what’s lastingly serene,
         till nothing’s left
But data’s captivating dream
         that more is less.

It’s there—unfathomable maze
         of ancient light—
In that cold sky swept free of haze
         some winter night.

Sickle

What is it, he asked the grandma,
         pointing up to
A tool bent like a bird’s claw,
         held by a screw

Almost rusted away—short curved
         blade, the handle
Gone now. My father’s, she averred,
         he could dandle

It like a man waving a snake
         at a meeting
In a tent, out in the canebrake,
         God entreating.

Jared Carter’s most recent book of poems, The Land Itself, is from Monongahela Books in West Virginia. He lives in Indiana.