Zócalo Public SquareChris Davidson – Zócalo Public Square

If

by Chris Davidson and Aaron Belz — Fri, 30 Aug 2013 07:01:47 +0000

If “alignment of jaws and teeth” is set by
“use [of] cutlery during formative years,”
orthodontics is sisyphean. I’m unhappy
more than I’ll admit, but what’s to blame?

What knife and fork cut up the information
fed me, shaping my mind’s jaws and teeth
to bite misaligned, and reinforced in
misalignment by tools I’ve had to use?

Our ancestors tore food with incisors,
avoiding the overbite cut meat encourages,
that top-teeth smile regarded as beautiful.
Beauty’s shaped by what we learn to expect.

I sat in the chair, pinned there by lamplight
limning all flaws my open mouth availed,
the Dr’s daughter a shadowy blue smock,
beautiful face framed by straight, brown hair.

After three years they pulled the braces off.
I ran my tongue cross slick teeth—my smile
now matching that of the woman flossing
bloodless gums, in a frame, near the exit—

while the retainer came two weeks later,
credential signaling completion
and submission, a Boy Scout patch,
wedding ring or steak, rare, ready to eat.

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Bright Morning

by Chris Davidson — Fri, 16 Dec 2011 01:08:02 +0000

Bright morning wakes me through

A drapeless window. Away from kids

And wife for the weekend, the bed
Is quiet, the room unpressurized,

The house airy. I miss my life
As it is even for this short time

But this short time is a gift.
On the phone, I love you to each

Of the three. No faces to register.
Words like mortars flying out

At a target obscured by a ridge
May or may not hit the target.

You must trust the coordinates, trust
Experience and expertise.

Chris Davidson is Assistant Professor of English at Biola University, where he directs the Biola composition program and writing center. He holds a B.A. from Cal Poly San Luis Obispo and an M.F.A. from UC Irvine. His poems have been published in numerous journals, including Alaska Quarterly Review, Caesura, Cimarron Review, CRATE, Dust Up, and Orange Coast Review.

*Photo courtesy of sj_sanders.

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Rincon del Mar Means “Corner of the Sea”

by Chris Davidson — Thu, 04 Aug 2011 03:08:36 +0000

The swell today is sweet, bringing lines past
the point and into the cove.
Cars driven by surfers nearly crash
on the 101 as they slow. Around the bend,
unseeable from the road, is the rookery.
A baby sea lion barks near shore, tossed
to the rocks, lost or sick or too weak to jet
past the breakers. My son runs near the edge
of the bluff. Strangers look at me when
in a stern, too-loud voice, I say No!
Screw you. That’s my son and that’s my job.
I don’t say it out loud. It’s a beautiful day.

Chris Davidson is Assistant Professor of English at Biola University, where he directs the Biola composition program and writing center. He holds a B.A. from Cal Poly San Luis Obispo and M.F.A. from the University of California at Irvine. His poems have been published in numerous journals, including Alaska Quarterly Review, Caesura, Cimarron Review, CRATE, Dust Up, Orange Coast Review.

*Photo courtesy of rkramer62.

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A Quick Survey of Conditions

by Chris Davidson — Tue, 05 Jul 2011 04:36:53 +0000

The concrete path goes round the house,
giving access to all its sides. In summer,
it’s white as salt, at night dulled
as under a full moon tinted slightly blue,
like the blue accenting ice in the ocean.
Around front it lets go a straight
spur through a lawn of dying grass
to the street. The neighbors’ lawns on both sides
are lit-up green, and springy, and
connected to ours by the sidewalk parallel
to the street absorbing each house’s path,
a creek taking in tributaries and flowing
or frozen. From above, though I’ve never been,
the houses with paths like this look like
thought balloons in comics, each house what it–
the street, pale gray space–thinks,
or maybe the street’s the bordering void
between panels. The void does the talking here,
friends, and conveys people well-packaged
to and from the aphorisms they sleep in.
This is no complaint. It’s where I live.
4th of July the street’s released to kids.

Chris Davidson is Assistant Professor of English at Biola University, where he directs the Biola composition program and writing center. He holds a B.A. from Cal Poly San Luis Obispo and M.F.A. from the University of California at Irvine. His poems have been published in numerous journals, including Alaska Quarterly Review, Caesura, Cimarron Review, CRATE, Dust Up, Orange Coast Review.

*Photo courtesy of futureatlas.com.

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The Trail is a Trap

by Chris Davidson — Tue, 28 Jun 2011 02:57:04 +0000

The trail is a trap the mind tells feet
to adhere to. There are ticks in the grass
thick with unseen processes rain and sun
work within it to make it so. The path
ahead grows threadlike, a seam on the ridge,
ridge upon ridge as angle and distance make land
look like folded cloth, with patches of oak
sliding down steep ravines. In some shadows
are vines, with corkscrew tendrils reaching
to loop around tiny branches of trees.
Like a string wound round a finger,
attachment is a means of survival.
A snap backs up the zipper’s teeth,
and the electromagnet beneath the floor
prevents the friction of air from slowing
the mighty pendulum’s oscillations.
Long socks keep skin unbitten, and a trail
is always before you: a trap, a way through.

Chris Davidson is Assistant Professor of English at Biola University, where he directs the Biola composition program and writing center. He holds a B.A. from Cal Poly San Luis Obispo and M.F.A. from the University of California at Irvine. His poems have been published in numerous journals, including Alaska Quarterly Review, Caesura, Cimarron Review, CRATE, Dust Up, Orange Coast Review.

*Photo courtesy of pfly.

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