Pastoral

Forrest Gander

The rain broke off             an hour earlier, the turnthe turn-signal indicator ceased             the last of its clucking, andwe arrived             at the abandoned farm arrivedwith others just now            bailing themselves outfrom their cars, our voices         pitched in some ad-mixture of ease and         exhilaration, someadventure in happiness if         there were such a thing and it wasn'tpretend: laughing, slamming         the doors, we were miscible, we believedwe were friends, remember that?         and your floriferousbridesmaids still wearing those              purple plumeria headbandslike Goa hippies. The serpentine             footpath to the river steamed—it steamed in sunlight         adding to the fullness withoutadding weight. You,               to whom this place was a given,sacred even, and so not given             to you, pointed outpeacock tracks in the mud. Through         an old orchard on either sideof us, where swollen jackfruit            hung on slender limbs,swarms of midges             bobbed up and downlike balled hairnets in the light             breeze. Before itbecame visible, we heard           the river riverand behind it the         gurgling of runoffdown bluffs of packed alluvium.         Jacaranda perfumemixed with pong             from your neighbor'sbreeder-houses. Who could look         into that afternoon and seeit closing? Our whole             queue halted when you wentto one knee, when you crouched             at a puddle to cooto a fat toad. Gone             quiet, we were hypnotizedby the signature           enthusiasmin your face. As the sun                     cleared the clouds, youglanced back to find my eyes             eyes fixed on you, and whatI felt then                 gave me causeto recall                    the pleasure breaking outon the faces of musicians             in that pausebetween their last note between             their last note andthe applause. What             you said, what I said. Whatwe did we did until there was no interval between us.

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Jack Shear

Forrest Gander, a writer and translator with degrees in geology and literature, was born in the Mojave Desert and lives in northern California. His books, often concerned with ecology, include Be With, winner of the 2019 Pulitzer Prize, the novel The Trace, and Core Samples from the World. Gander’s translations include Alice Iris Red Horse: Poems by Gozo Yoshimasu and Then Come Back: the Lost Neruda Poems. Often collaborating with artists such as Ann Hamilton, Sally Mann, Graciela Iturbide, and Vic Chesnutt, he has received grants from the Library of Congress, the Guggenheim, Howard, Whiting and United States Artists Foundations.

Cover of Twice Alive by Forrest Gander

New York, New York

"In Gander’s follow up to his extraordinary book of loss and lamentation, Be With, (for which he was awarded the Pulitzer Prize), this poet of metaphysical abstraction, Eros, and intimate observation — and even adulation — of the natural world finds fresh metaphors for the sudden and uneasy onset of new love."
NPR

"Gander’s love for formal, even archaic language and the quiet complexity of his syntax can build striking abstract landscapes in which the material and spiritual worlds seem equally intelligent."
—Tony Hoagland, American Poetry Review

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