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      August 4, 2014New YearLindsay Tigue

      The man who photographed
      the very first plane to hit
      air was using a camera 
      for the very first time.
      The Wright brothers never
      married. Wilbur once said
      he did not have time for both
      a wife and an airplane.
       
      I could put a husband,
      a wife, or daughter in this poem.
      You might think someone 
      is waiting for me to come 
      back home.
       
      I spent the first day
      of this new year
      in Antigua, Guatemala, queasy.
      I watched firecrackers
      explode near my feet,
      paper lanterns rising
      toward sky.
       
      At the end of the day, 
      I walked through 
      Antigua alone, saw a horde 
      of people in black. A funeral 
      march. The mourners held 
      photos, and flowers, crosses, 
      and signs. Slowly, they walked
      through the streets.

      from #42 - Winter 2013

      Lindsay Tigue

      “I wrote ‘New Year’ last year after a trip to Guatemala with a friend. While in Antigua, on New Year’s Day, we were supposed to go on a volcano tour, but I wasn’t feeling well and stayed back at the hostel. While my friend was gone, I wandered the streets of Antigua alone and came upon a funeral procession. I read and write poetry because of these moments that allow me to share in a more beautiful loneliness.”

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