I am thinking about the things that silence me today—
fear of ridicule, fear of being wrong, the great fear
of harming someone with my words. I worry and the
day rolls over in its sleep, tugging the clouds’ dark
blankets over one shoulder. A pale stripe of Western sun,
a breeze, a frost-blackened sunflower stalk nodding
the dead star of its flower. I am thinking about wars,
of people who plan how they will happen and where—
and I am thinking how every war burns down the
house we all have to live in. And yet someone hurts
badly enough to drive a tank down a city street, or run
into a concert with guns. We have always had weapons,
always. But this autumn’s slide into winter feels like
someone full of dinner fighting to stay awake and watch
TV’s neon lies. I want to say the world is what’s truly
beautiful, and I’m having trouble today. If you hold
your open hands in front of you, fingers slightly curved
as if you were trying to catch something, you might
feel the heft of your life, and it might be holy. Newly
baptized babies almost always reach for the candle the
priest is holding, towards its light—cheap trick or not.
We all know where the light is; we just can’t agree on
its name. See how the sky has cleared? how can you
ignore sunset through that architecture of empty trees?
—
Christine Potter is the poetry editor of Eclectica Magazine. Her poems have been curated in many literary publications: Rattle, Grain, ONE ART, Does It Have Pockets, Tar River Poetry, The McNeese Review, and Consequence. Her time-traveling young adult novels, The Bean Books, are published by Evernight Teen and her latest collection of poetry, Unforgetting, is on Kelsay Books.
