Jan/Feb 2019 Poetry Special Feature


by Antonia Clark

Image salvaged from public domain


I've long since parted company
with that sad triangled god
who monitored the endless hours
of childhood, the Überparent
who took over when the earthly
ones couldn't see—me in my room

torn between junior sainthood
and less spiritual aspirations, one
minute praying for a vision, the next
studying the Illustrated History of Art
trying to make sense of male anatomy.

I'm done with that dour presence
that hovered above the hard winter
ground, where I lay with a neighbor
boy, his fisherman-knit sweater rough
against my chest, we two snug
in the questionable belief that we
could make ourselves invisible.

Today I only pray to minor gods
who've proven themselves good
listeners—ghosts, stones, small
animals. No wish to unravel mysteries,
unveil what's unrevealed, but will
always choose to follow the call
of geese, the river's slow meander,
a line of tracks across an open field


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