2019 / poetry / author
CHRIS WHEELER
IV. THE IMPACT OF WATER
…
I feel rain coming.
The light dims but it’s something above me
casting shadows. I am immersed in clouds,
fracturing into mist and drizzle, a collapse.
I am writing in my journal about
I am posting a picture of
I am arranging my schedule around
I am living my life because
I feel rain coming.
Steady the ominous
death of sun and
warmth for the sake of
but I wasn’t ready.
The wind blows it in, and like it I am wild
with terror at the thought - a thought that
alone I am nothing that
with others I am nothing that
I will always be nothing that
the rain will come to nothing as
the ground is filled with nothing.
Nothing stirs before the storm,
within the eye, except a
solitary
bird
song,
distant,
choked out before the petr-
ichor, I am inhaling other people’s
dust and smoke and breath
the things that only I
know of them, the downpour
and I am not good enough alone,
I never will be,
but the rain falls on your headstone
and the same rain falls on me.
I. THE TASTE OF EARTH
…
My children eat sand,
a curiosity turned
granular, just like I did
when I was their age,
and that is why, my child,
I hope you’ve learned
your lesson, don’t go
around eating what we’re
made of, it’s not
palatable.