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About this Poem 

"'Loss' came out of a collaboration with Andy Buck. He carved these three-and-a-half inch figures out of wood and applied milk-paint for their clothes. The figures seemed to me somber and I was to give them a voice and narrative. I named each figure, and each figure spoke to something missing. This is number nine in a series of twenty-three. His name is Thomas."
—Carl Adamshick

Loss

Carl Adamshick, 1969

It is nice to be without answers
at the end of summer.
Wind lifting leaves from branches.

The moment laid down like something
in childhood and forgotten, until later,
when stumbled upon, we think:
this is where it was lost.

The sadness isn't their sadness.
The sadness is the way

they will never unpack the rucksack
of happiness again.

They'll never surface as divers rising
through leagues of joy, through sun
willowing through the bottom half of waves.

They'll never surface again.
Again and again,

they will never surface.

Copyright © 2013 by Carl Adamshick. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in Poem-A-Day on July 10, 2013. Browse the Poem-A-Day archive.

Copyright © 2013 by Carl Adamshick. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in Poem-A-Day on July 10, 2013. Browse the Poem-A-Day archive.

Carl Adamshick

Carl Adamshick

Born in Toledo, Ohio, in 1969 Carl Adamshick grew up primarily in Harvard, Illinois

by this poet

poem
A low, quiet music is playing—
distorted trumpet, torn bass line,
white windows. My palms
are two speakers the size
of pool-hall coasters.	
I lay them on the dark table
for you to repair.
poem
Last week the caption
on page twelve stated
the person photographed
was Jersy Lem when in fact
it was Adolf Hitler.
poem

We took your food and in a few days 
you'll see we took your excrement.

We've devised such intricate rules. 	

We've agreed, signed papers. We took the papers.

We took your pain, your dignity. 
We took your language and watched 
as religion fell from you.