Connor Yeck
Sante Fe / / Reliquary
the tidy undertow of bones
on velvet. Saintly knuckles,
& the eyetooth set
like a comet in the pearl
& cedar cross.
On the way out, you catch
the no flash placard,
hung above the glass,
& though it's too late
for either of us, now,
I know even light
can be wrong.
No one comes here
this time of year.
High desert the biggest
room I have ever seen,
& the mesas' dark tonsures
of pine—such lousy
preamble for an evening
just getting to its feet,
& us tripping into another
museum so nearly closed.
When it's called for, we linger:
the fiberglass 1:1 Fat Man,
wedding veils stitched
in parachute silk
& the odd corner table—
its pond of tempered
glass set like sky over cancerous
coin, belt buckle, golden filling,
irradiated slivers arranged
like human-henge.
You put your hand above it all.
But won't lean. Don't say
to take the picture. I have
never been more
certain the flash was on.
That light
will pulverize whatever
it catches.
Connor Yeck’s poetry can be found or is forthcoming in Best New Poets, Prairie Schooner, The Gettysburg Review, Sonora Review, Crab Orchard Review, and Passages North. He holds an MFA from Western Michigan University, where he edited for Third Coast, and currently, is a doctoral student at the University of Cincinnati.