Did you know
there will be poppies
again this year?
It’s true. I’ve seen
their muted green fractals
stockpiling sunlight,
distilling it down
to its purest essence
before igniting
into slow motion fireworks.
In the end, isn’t this all
that’s required of you?
To drink in what you love,
to concentrate it
in the crucible of your body,
and, finally, to bloom.
— James A. Pearson, All That’s Required of You from The Wilderness That Bears Your Name, 2024
In the deep cuts that keep us searing
like we’re hitting every red light
on the way home from getting fired,
maybe some new-age clinic could
save us. Laser our faith’s return.
We’ve come to embrace couch stains.
Revel in the hostages held
inside ourselves. Search for
the worst creatures in an expanded
radius in our ever-molting souls.
Some say the notifications for
our demise can’t come fast enough;
they need them set to alerts.
But you’re different. You believe
in a fox that still takes down durocs.
Whatever is hidden in the shed
that an absent father left you is
of no importance anymore: As you
stitch your wounds, only a horrible
TV show can make you feel okay.
Before the beetles get us, before
our cracked dream system caves in
on itself, we take a walk with just
a trusty dog and a worn quarter,
pacing, flipping our way to freedom.
