In the Beginning
Move among the days like you wear your red shoes,
but always remain barefooted, bare toes to the ground.
Stretch your fingertips to the rough pine boughs,
listen for their scent, feel for their breath.
Watch the grackle steal from the tree swiftly as a thief.
He smells the blackberries you left as an offering,
as a stain on your lips, blood on your fingertips.
He tastes your heartbeat.
Forget that you once promised forever to the stars of Orion in Sherman Park years ago.
Never forget that you once promised forever to stars too far away.
Now only make your offerings to the trees,
to these things that hold firmly to the ground.
And build your house from branches and dirt
a swallow’s thousand mudbeaks
because clay can never lead to disaster.
Find a table in the wilderness under which to dream
and your mother’s red shoes will take you home
when the fires in the hills threaten to freeze your blood.
Unfurl your wings,
leave your cardinal dreams to the forest
and follow the little girl whose eyes are sunlight and stone.
You will write your story then
with slate quills that prick the smooth skin of your palms
And I will forever carve the sparrows from cinnamon bark and birch.
If this world was created ex nihilo
so it shall return,
after the pines whisper their goodbyes
and the grackle apologizes for biting your red heart in two.
--published in Perch. First published in Midwestern Gothic 9 (2013): 161-162.
Interview with Midwestern Gothic
Move among the days like you wear your red shoes,
but always remain barefooted, bare toes to the ground.
Stretch your fingertips to the rough pine boughs,
listen for their scent, feel for their breath.
Watch the grackle steal from the tree swiftly as a thief.
He smells the blackberries you left as an offering,
as a stain on your lips, blood on your fingertips.
He tastes your heartbeat.
Forget that you once promised forever to the stars of Orion in Sherman Park years ago.
Never forget that you once promised forever to stars too far away.
Now only make your offerings to the trees,
to these things that hold firmly to the ground.
And build your house from branches and dirt
a swallow’s thousand mudbeaks
because clay can never lead to disaster.
Find a table in the wilderness under which to dream
and your mother’s red shoes will take you home
when the fires in the hills threaten to freeze your blood.
Unfurl your wings,
leave your cardinal dreams to the forest
and follow the little girl whose eyes are sunlight and stone.
You will write your story then
with slate quills that prick the smooth skin of your palms
And I will forever carve the sparrows from cinnamon bark and birch.
If this world was created ex nihilo
so it shall return,
after the pines whisper their goodbyes
and the grackle apologizes for biting your red heart in two.
--published in Perch. First published in Midwestern Gothic 9 (2013): 161-162.
Interview with Midwestern Gothic
