Tyler Davis majored in English at Smith and spent her senior year blissfully as one of the Poetry Center’s interns. Now she is completing a master’s in Counseling Psychology and will graduate with a license in Marriage and Family Therapy. She is trying to bring poetry to this new discipline, utilizing approaches of Narrative Therapy, since she is reluctant to leave literature in her academic past. Even without the guidance of writers in residence and the inspiration of the Poetry Center, many subjects and scenes still call out to be put down on paper.
“If it’s still there, waiting, that must mean that nothing ever dies.”
This town’s full to bursting.
The red dust of mining’s hey-day still circles us in open pits;
we carry it on shoe-bottoms, in lungs.
The blasts push us back from this century too often
so that we hang always on modernity’s fringes.
The pits we have dug are waiting to drown us.
The rickety buildings of Finn-town might explode—
too much past packed like a decade-old land mine.
Or perhaps the end will go like this:
all the bars on main street
will jump back to their immigrant languages,
a different bar for each country.
Men will stumble out to the frost one evening, surprised
to find their tongues flying through
Swedish, Finnish, Italian, Slovenian,
Mouths will clatter that night,
whiskeyed breath rising to the frozen stars,
voices descending into Babel.
They tumble like toy soldiers
as the mine pit mouths yawn wide to eat this run up.