by Luke Johnson
Standing under redwoods, it’s easy for me to believe
in giants, to grieve a field of grasshoppers still alive
in wind feathering ferns, ghosts greening
Or maybe my grief changes colors
in memories and books, showing red
as green, a trick of light to cast shimmers
as false shadow.
Praying mantes must have ascended
Noah’s gangplanks, one male and female, she
resolute in her purpose, he in his expendability.
This precision cannot be called love.
Hoof-prints reveal the herd where dust kicked
and has resettled.
We are not so fallen
we can’t recognize our shadowed edges.
Trees show their rings without protest
and the ocean sings a chorus of I do’s, taking in
late-evening quiet along with scores of sinners
still wandering, who come to the coast nights,
who would’ve drowned in what my mother showed me
of God’s love, the ever-lasting compassion
to be human, but I will hide these small things:
inventions and embellishments on playing fields
I never took, how I lie—even here, even now—how
my mother left my father and I still don’t know
how to forgive her, if I need to—Genesis
misses these unpaid fares, and I can only listen
to black water buck while cliffs swallow wind
and spit back memory, pushing clouds to sea.
Belief easier said than done when considering scale,
this is what a cracked shell tells us about growth.
Once the sky has been covered, roots can only drink.
It’s up to us to grow gills, to learn to breathe
here where the flood has become the body.
Luke Johnson is the author of After the Ark (NYQ Books). His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Best New Poets, New England Review, Southwest Review, Threepenny Review, and elsewhere. He lives in Seattle, Washington.