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The Day a Cast of My Own Failures Rocked Me

ISSUE:  Spring 2019


Suppose we were there for some event 
we did not want in on or did. Faith flung 

so hard, the cage I felt around me was 
no cage, just fear, in a summer-long wither; 

an idea much too small for our believin’ at 
the time. Suppose bendin’ to kiss his cold, 

thick feet, will ever mean anything. How feet 
of men, kissed by men, sounds biblical. 

How the occasion sought to vandalize our most
underdressed prayers, which aided the gathered, 

who were too heavy to be lifted and how 
do you say lift when the moment is bent 

on your fall? Suppose a god’s eyes fell yellow 
in your clean face, where doctors have to 

stand there, helpless as you, with all those 
futile books stacked in their heads; benighted 

by the hour and this deteriorating conclusion. 
I think it was Mother Hayes who’d started 

closin’ all the blinds and my first thought, “some 
folk deal in metaphor subconsciously.” Suppose 

all this leavin’ was comin’ and we couldn’t 
brace for anything if we wanted, where 

somethin’ to hold onto, hurries to mirage itself 
into your late pseudo-rescue. Our eyes rained 

salt into the dumb silence. The vitals, 
a fast stage curtain, falling, where the lead 

never makes it back out to bow and there’s
no encore to quell these sobbing ovations.



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