I wanted to write a potable poem. “Jesus Crawled.” There are lambs being “weaned / from pale soap.” I “smoked and smoked,” which is as close to drinking air as I could do without dying. There are “gently” falling rains; “a cat’s tongue” laps at the faces of children as I “drank tears from soup.” Even the “last drop” consumes itself in the poem. Put these words in your mouth.
Connor Fisher on "Jesus Crawled" |
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