by Stephen Hitchcock
Found out why I’m writing apocalyptically.
Why stars dot the nightscape like street fires.
Why the children have seemingly disappeared
into a mythical wood, ensorcelled by mushroom
fumes, an immediacy from which, who knows,
they may never look up. Why I’m babbling
on about the Seven Blue Heavens. Because
it’s 20 below here. In this the smallest capital
of the union, Montpelier, VT, my feet
have begun the transformation process.
Snow on the mountains, filling the valleys,
erasing contours. In this way it’s like suffering.
In this way it’s like spin. Because I can’t rinse
the taste of hate from my mouth, its anise seed
& fever pitch. Because there’s nothing
you can’t vet: your neighbor’s lawn, her boy
-friend, her cat, her cat-themed mailbox.
Because I caught sight of Pharaoh’s face
over your shoulder in a bar on TV & called
down upon his peoples plagues of boils
& locusts, of darkness unto death, until
I saw myself & my loved ones among them.
Because justice arrives too late, wearing a mask
too tight or a brooch too small or cargo
shorts, falls in with the wrong crowd, falls out
of fashion. Justice. Just ice. Thankyousomuch.
I’m not drinking tonight. I’m burning up
& slowing down. Because I spend my days
parsing exposure’s frisk & exposure’s freedom.
There’s the arc of your life, then there’s the grammar.
You may never wash the grit from under
your nails, & you may never have to. Because
I’m frightened of paper, its lilywhiteness.
I meant to buy some stationary. I left my wallet
in another life. I feel the need to handwrite
a letter to the editor on this cocktail napkin,
a love letter, an apology, a recall, a threat.
I need the feel. I need the feel of it.
