Cosmogony
What is a
belief?
In the beginning of the world,
birth of a new
e
a
r
t
h
born
from the womb of God?
But he is a man.
Me:
a 5-inch coffee tear
down the front
of my cream cami
– tried to look put together today
Also me:
2 tissues and a quick trip
to the water fountain,
telling no one,
wiping until the stain dissipates
Still me:
can’t get rid of anything
completely
Each time I came to
There were more people
In the room
They fell to their knees
Spoke in tongues
Lined out hymns
Granny brought ‘sang
For my female weakness
She said but still I could not
Get out of bed
Used to be
I’d go with her
I had a quick eye
For all matter of roots
And kept my wits about me
In the woods
Now I ask for catmint
To calm my nerves
For cohosh to ease
The cramps
The nurses mumble
And bring more bromide
They curse and spit
The word Witch
Then leave the room
Before I can ask again.
She lies naked on the lichened rocks, fetal in her fatigue, knees and visible shoulder bruised by missteps on the climb so far. Her soles are dirtied, her hands likely the same but obscured beneath dark strands as they pillow her head. When she wakes, her soul and body refreshed or further torn by dreams, the struggle will continue as it must. For now, the bear’s chin at her neck as it guards, at least the present is secured. This alone matters.
y’all go on, chase that neon.
i know it’s irresistible.
the buzzing of busy streets
instead of the biting mosquitoes.
the thought of restaurants open
way past supper time
and not a cooker of soup beans
or a pone of cornbread on the menu.
the ambient glow of life in town
draws country kids like moths
to Mamaw’s porch light.
it’s too tempting to flit away
from the familiar.
so spread your wings and go on.
i’ll wait right here at the end of the gravel
holding down the homestead
and swatting off bloodsuckers.
you left.
you’re gone.
you’re right
next to me
but you’re still
out there
somewhere.
lost
among the sand.
i’d like to say,
“i’ll find you again
someday.”
but i know
you’re still
with the
lotus eaters.
i know
you are
never
coming
home.
A.
It’s not you,
it’s all
the
choices
I’ve kept making.
B.
It’s the distance.
C.
I am afraid
(or simply alive)
or you
want to have kids
or not, but to move
to different cities
and I insist
on my own a career and
am devout to
not losing ground with
this current one
every time
I uproot.
D.
I want
comforts I
believe I
must achieve
on
my
own:
how many years
of more discipline
and less expectation
are enough?
E.
I am worried you’re
out
of my league-
so I am not even asking. You
may know, but
didn’t hear it from me.
F.
All of the above.
If I should move
I I should move to Guatemala,
I could teach English
and, perhaps, read my poetry
to a captive audience
of teenagers.
If I should move to Guatemala,
I could volunteer to excavate
the newest Maya ruins,
60,000 structures discovered from space
with the latest scientific technology.
If I should move to Guatemala
to teach English and read my words
to teenagers, I could expect
to earn five hundred
to six hundred dollars in a year.
If I should move to Guatemala
to assist with reclamation of a city,
long dead and concealed by jungle,
I might find full-pottery vessels,
or pristine terracotta figurines of deity.
Holding an ancient piece of an artist’s
handiwork and trying to feel as one
with the creator is one thing,
but looking into the eyes
of a thirteen year old
and seeing hope,
akin to love,
would be,
a lifetime in coming,
and priceless.
Pressing the cold barrel into his mouth
Finger trembling on trigger
Surely he started to reconsider.
For the emptiness inside
Contained then swallowed
Demons whispering cried
Softly speaking
The dying lies within.
Listening slowly
To whispers echoing
To give up his fight.
Begging his fault.
Until his last thought.
Based off one of the first EMS calls I responded to 11 years ago.
