During National Poetry Month 2014, my poems were dedicated to Malaysia Airlines Flight 370. Certain place names are real; nothing else is. Scroll down, start reading with “At the Dong Cheng Factory” — and work your way up . . .
WELCOME. I’m Rose Auslander. I live in Brooklyn with my husband Rick, and two daughters who come and go. Updates below . . .
Photograph courtesy of Liz Hanellin.
Fun news — I’ll be one of the readers at Poet’s House the afternoon of Saturday, September 6. The readings will be starting at 1 p.m. I hope you can make it! Click here for more details: Finishing Line Press Fall Poetry Reading.
Poetry Month seems so long ago . . . for more poetry, it’s time to pre-order my new book, The Dolphin in the Gowanus. Pre-order deadline August 1. To help support a small poet — and find out what happens to the dolphin — just click here. Thank you!!!
Hi y’all — summertime means it’s time to pre-order my new book: The Dolphin in the Gowanus! August 1 pre-order deadline. To give a little support this small poet — and find out what happens to the dolphin — just click here. Thank you!!!
an evaporating cloud.
Where you are
you are. I am cold. I am dark. I am
you, falling. I am taking you in-
side. I am carrying you
under the ocean
Dear ones, might a sign appear, if only a shard?
Even if sheered from nothing, a shard.
50 days slipped safely past
you who have disappeared—bequeath a shard.
Wherever you flew, wherever you fell
Dear lost ones, just a shard.
Your spectral lines, your memories, even your
fear clinging somewhere. However sharp, a shard.
Do you remember us?
We wait here. Even for a shard.
The clouds will start turning black. We should not expect
to see down. Through
comes nowhere. Yet someone
will expect everything. Maybe plan it. Or just
if the co-pilot picks up the phone.
If anyone hears.
Sky let you fall.
Ocean swallowed you.
Ocean took you in.
Sky set you free.
Sky let you.
I only have brothers. But when the last night
tears loose, flies
blind through the smoke beyond this
realm of air, my sister
will sit with me. Will stitch
ruffles in my ashes, comb my hair, part
the ether between this world and all that —
pull me through properly. She will.
There may be debris. It may
be our debris. The debris that may be
may have washed up on a shore. Maybe
in Australia. Maybe more debris
on more than one shore. Possibly also
elsewhere. Wherever it may be, it has been
secured. No one will see it. No one will
find us. No one will know.