19 May Since You Asked by Ann Goldsmith
and the heaviness of trees
and because you understood
the ways of deer.
I did it because you made
fire out of twigs
and breath
and found water always.
The body knows. Out of old
straps and chains
I came, forgetting my name
when you called me
from beyond the mountains.
I did it because no matter
how often I threw myself
upon you, breaking
into bloom, flame, storm,
you were my good earth,
my doctor animal,
my straight way in the wilderness.
But that was years ago.
I live in the city now,
nosing around the crusts and
rinds of memory.
And you with your soft shoe,
your white feet
and thick black fur,
don’t I see you disappearing
into every neon rainbow,
coming toward me
out of every dark ravine?
About the Poet
Ann Goldsmith was born in Puerto Rico, grew up in Schenectady, and attended Smith College. After working as a journalist, she moved to Colorado, where she worked in bookstores and libraries. Returning to New York State after the death of her husband Jay, she earned a PhD at the University at Buffalo, and taught for many years, both at collegiate institutions and through several writing groups in the Buffalo area. She was a Just Buffalo Literary Center WNY Writers-in-Residence Award winner in 1984 and was a poet-in-residence for two years at The Chautauqua Institution.
Goldsmith is the author of three full-length collections of poetry, No One Is the Same Again (Quarterly Review of Literature, 1999), The Spaces Between Us (Outriders Poetry Project, 2010) and Since You Ask (Yrtremmys Press, 2024). Her work has appeared in many national magazines and journals, and was twice a finalist the Discovery/The Nation national poetry competition.
This is the title poem of her latest collection, compiled by poet, editor, and publisher Edric Mesmer for Ytremmys Press.
The Poem of the Week feature is curated by literary legacy awardee R.D. Pohl.