The pages are a landscape for the aphid that crawls
across their edges, gentle.
The day holds a muggy sun behind clouds that move
to feel my skin, lazy.
Walking through a story and we’re at the part
where the neighbor cuts the blades of grass on his
lawn. Grey hair, headphones, basketball shorts,
and hairpin turns in early July with whatever
personal plan climbing the ceiling in his head.
The culture is a one story ranch for the man
paying the mortgage, monthly.
The day is a day to preserve what we’ve made
for ourselves, together, alone.
Skipping the prologue and we’re at the part
where I’m waking up on a Friday morning
and feeling my way downstairs, sitting on
the deck, eating an overcast moment that
has lifted the dry heat off the night before
where the dream that my father was dead
was real, in that moment, crying, asleep.
But my attention is to the day now,
a page, anew,
and Jonestown is just a book on the table
outside for me, awake.
Inside the pages there are parts
of warm redemption, Sunday services,
road trips, collard greens, prayer, ceremony,
and so many mouths who swallowed death
one day in the jungle,
so many bodies in the landscape.