Summer was only a whisper
away, I could feel
the honeybees on my tongue
when we ditched class
and followed the beaten trail like snakes
in the grass. High sun, high eyes, you
always liked them. What a drive, you say,
pulling into an abandoned lot where
foxes rule like kings and weeds are
becoming.
Too easy, you skate across the paths
like it’s winter and this is the pond
in my parents’ backyard. Same trees,
same sky, sure, but as we walked
beneath the looming canopy of branches
and nests, I felt celestial,
like an unwelcome guest
who breaks down your door and
marches on all your pillows and antique
breakables. They say a cave collapsed
millions of years ago, fostering
this grand gulf, a dwarf Grand Canyon.
We scaled down the side
of a thorny rose cliff, hummingbirds
surrounded us like crop circles.
It was in that moment, me taking a seat
adjacent to a butterfly on a daisy,
that indebtedness gripped my shirt collar
across the dining room table, saliva foaming
at the corners of its mouth, and slapped
me across the face. Cheeks burning, eyes
welling, I recognized the purity,
I recognized the sublime.
Everything I faced was part
of a divine process that no man could ever
effectuate. The gulf that could swallow
me whole with one slip, one tumble,
was designed by water, shaped
by the sandy wind. Without me or him,
it would flourish,
the vines would climb so high that not
even an angel could bring them down.
On the drive home, in his passenger
seat, all I could envision was green:
the specks in his eyes, a singular
leaf on an elm tree, the feeling
you get when you think too hard
and too long about being manmade.
Sep 22, 2016
Sep 22, 2016 at 10:53 PM UTC
Summer was only a whisper
away, I could feel
the honeybees on my tongue
when we ditched class
and followed the beaten trail like snakes
in the grass. High sun, high eyes, you
always liked them. What a drive, you say,
pulling into an abandoned lot where
foxes rule like kings and weeds are
becoming.
Too easy, you skate across the paths
like it’s winter and this is the pond
in my parents’ backyard. Same trees,
same sky, sure, but as we walked
beneath the looming canopy of branches
and nests, I felt celestial,
like an unwelcome guest
who breaks down your door and
marches on all your pillows and antique
breakables. They say a cave collapsed
millions of years ago, fostering
this grand gulf, a dwarf Grand Canyon.
We scaled down the side
of a thorny rose cliff, hummingbirds
surrounded us like crop circles.
It was in that moment, me taking a seat
adjacent to a butterfly on a daisy,
that indebtedness gripped my shirt collar
across the dining room table, saliva foaming
at the corners of its mouth, and slapped
me across the face. Cheeks burning, eyes
welling, I recognized the purity,
I recognized the sublime.
Everything I faced was part
of a divine process that no man could ever
effectuate. The gulf that could swallow
me whole with one slip, one tumble,
was designed by water, shaped
by the sandy wind. Without me or him,
it would flourish,
the vines would climb so high that not
even an angel could bring them down.
On the drive home, in his passenger
seat, all I could envision was green:
the specks in his eyes, a singular
leaf on an elm tree, the feeling
you get when you think too hard
and too long about being manmade.
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