By Jared Carter
Laodamia to Protesilaus If you were lost, how would I find you, what path take along dark streets, through damp vaults, how untangle those choices far underground, those myriad voices? If I were gone, you could no longer follow through great spillways, or deep hollows in that world. My footsteps would fade, there would be no echo, no light or shade. Still, somewhere your presence ahead would call, through realms of the dead, through time imploded and turned back, platform deserted, abandoned track. No pause in this long pursuit, this seeking that has no end. Neither of us speaking, or able to break the spell – neither chase nor surrender. Only the lost, familiar face. (First published in The Raintown Review.) Resurrection The body rises up at last, it cannot keep Its distance from what comes to pass, when more than sleep Is beckoning. To bid adieu and still to bless, Savonarola reached out through the flames; and pressed Against them, Frida Kahlo sat upright, as though Awakening at last from what is merely show. (First published in Clementine Unbound.)
Savonarola was a 15th century cleric known for opposing secular art. Courtesy Creative commons 
Self Portrait by Frida Kahlo was an early twentieth century Mexican artist. Courtesy: Creative commons
Jared Carter’s most recent collection, The Land Itself, is from Monongahela Books in West Virginia. His Darkened Rooms of Summer: New and Selected Poems, with an introduction by Ted Kooser, was published by the University of Nebraska Press in 2014. A recipient of several literary awards and fellowships, Carter is from the state of Indiana in the U.S.
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