Rebecca Foust

EIGHTEEN

Maybe I don't have to whisk
the ice smooth ahead of your
curling stone, explain
how you don't always mean

what you say, nor say what
you mean; tell why you don't cry
even though you feel pain,
explain your indifference

to rain. Or sun. How when
you get wet, sometimes
you burn. You're learning
to manage on your own,

how to keep track of taking
your meds, where and when
to get more, how much
and whether you took them

today. You're beginning
to take time from screen time
to eat, brush your teeth
and shave your luxurious beard,

you remember to set your
alarm. Charge your phone
in case your friends call.
Your friends. Your friends call.

THE VISITATION

He eats the Almanac
whole, then
re-reads it
page-by-page
in his mind.

He finds the
arrowhead,
the dropped contact lens,
the long-lost
diamond ring.

He makes
meaning from acorns,
the sky,
knotted bits
of string.

He's gifted,
but he never asked for
that special
mark of blood
on his door,

that forehead-
touch-chin flash
of fire; he never
invited
the giver in.

Rebecca Foust's book Dark Card won the 2007 Robert Phillips Poetry Chapbook Award and her full length collection was a finalist for Poetry's 2007 Emily Dickinson First Book Award. Her poetry has won several distinctions and is forthcoming in Atlanta Review, JAMA, Margie, North American Review, Nimrod and others.