by Dan Beachy-Quick

Some words some arrows and also wings
Pierce the heart to make it sing
Rug-burns on knees and the back spasm
That crick in the neck from kneeling
To pray with your mouth against the silent
Patch of nerves that delight in possessing
Silence as some form of light so sudden
It blinds the mind that thank you gods
Behind the eyes this light cannot think
I am the flowering weed grazed by every
Passing thing and guess what so are you
That’s how the field gets scattered with repair
Longer and longer the shadows grow
Until each one is full grown and has a voice
“Thank you, kid, for all this work,
all this toil, all that plowing, all those songs,
all the root-work that keeps birds in the air
where they belong.” Don’t call me kid. I’m no kid.
You ghosts in the undergloom always get it wrong.

Published on February 19, 2016