By Corinne Wohlford Mason
It was winter solstice. As day faded,
we drove to the appointment
through our city and over the river,
a circuitous route, the golden light
ennobling the derelict brick, the industry
of the river, the winter hawks perching
on the floodplain. The news was
not that bad, but still, bad enough.
We had options. We drove home
toward one bright star against the pink
spill of sunset. Look at this light,
we kept saying. Here is a neighborhood
we have never seen before. The sky shifted
sapphire to black. We floated
premises; they floated away. We would
choose later, let the longest night
take its time. We would do this right.
Corinne Wohlford Mason teaches U.S. history, culture studies, and writing, and she chairs the Department of Humanities at Fontbonne University in St. Louis. She holds an MFA in poetry from Washington University and a Ph.D. in American Studies from Saint Louis University. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Phoebe, HarvardReview, the GrolierPoetryPrizeAnnual, and BenningtonReview.