Bio Note: I attempt to help our Veterans heal as a RN in the Seattle area. In former lives I taught high school, practiced acupuncture, and managed aquatic centers. I try to be funny for my lovely kids and wife, but I am mostly arthritic and cranky. My second chapbook Mr. Rogers kills fruit flies will be published in fall 2020 by Main St Rag.
i am too suspicious of success and the complacency which follows because my arms have melted too many times— wax separating feather from feather wax smearing my new nametag (and i was only flying 10 feet above the sea)
i don’t remember why gilgamesh went down to the underworld
but i was there seven plus seven years in the mucosa-barked madrona roots pretending some god helped or at least padded down the path with soft lips pretending the sun which was supposed to filter through the stone path overhead made it down here but years strung together and the road under the road was still the only way from nauseous breakfast to a sleep of painted beaks some time in my forties i mirrored back up into my body pulling up from under my ankles yanking on the tendons up the long bones into hips and ghost shoulder to socket wrapped again—like i was twelve before my traveler felt it necessary to burrow i again inhabit this frame of juice and hair because i forgave myself for all the failures which never required forgiveness— just breathing here skin flushed in its own skinness the roots now branches fruiting beards of bees hands now blessed with permission
i walk with my infant son
in the stroller through these suburban streets which used to be an evergreen forest and many of the douglas fir and western red cedar still assert their stakes and hold roots hold court despite the plasticky houses and the asphalt where the stream used to curl they stand 40 to 80 feet some to 100 feet they have seen the deer and elk and bear and racoon silently replaced by mutated wolves and tiny cougars and mostly pale humans where smoke from pipes and fluid talk was once sewn into the needles and the late summer wind and as i look down at my son the linen sheet draped over the front of the stroller to protect him from the sun has molded to his face because of the gusts blowing down this manufactured canyon and he can’t see why he can’t see this whiteweave obscuring the openings to his forest and i think we are all a bit like this with our own fabric stuck across our voices and we translate this group of threads and knots as the reason for the work and the pain and the answer rather than the bleachscript which has covered this hill on this moist planet in this silvered bath of stars that look cold only because they are so far away so far away
©2020 Scott Ferry
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