Rickracked scraps of yellow ribbon
sacraments of the first Gulf War
from branches of a tumored tree
in my parents’ backyard.
Wheelworks of a jettisoned home
appliance rust silently in the oblique
soaking rain, rusting as do we all
flickering in an ad hoc gasp of air
clinging tight to old photographs
as the earth devolves to dust.
Everyone’s gone to church this
morning to worship as human or
holy some random concretion
gouged out by the west wind.
We invent our own mythology
to live, even my friend who finds
soft grace behind an owl’s closed eyes.
This is a meditation for the warp
of water moving from one elemental
to another, for pawned wedding rings
and wilted temples; for acedia, and
my own baroque symbol of childhood
brown pod-knives pendant
leaves shaped like false green
passion, the panicles of white flowers
flashing and melting away, roots
quietly aborting any seed not its own.
David Bond, an Illinois Arts Council Artist Fellowship winner in poetry in 2001 and 2005, has recently published work in Rhino, Big Muddy, Spoon River Poetry Review, The Cape Rock, as well as an anthology, Hurricane Blues. He’s been a reader and taught classes at the Nimrod/Hardman Awards Conference at the University of Tulsa, the Binghamton University Poetry Conference, and the Around the Coyote Fall Arts Festival in Chicago, among other venues.