The Bethke Place | Adam Boley
In the beginning, God cursed
Himself for the little stag
that impaled himself
on the tip of one universe
reaching into another, and
inside that crumbling body
haloed by strange teeth
and little purple flowers
will I build my church,
and the gates of this
sadness shall not prevail
against it. Hallelujah,
poppies in the field burst
like blood squeezed through
one million victorious fists.
Now enter the birth of the day.
Let a wheat-colored scrap
of fabric hang from your
Tie your shoelaces
to another person’s shoelaces,
then see how possible it is
to become a swan.
You might collapse
into a heap of light.
Now you may crawl
back to your unsettling oceans,
now you may release
your fuck-fierce kingdom of kites.
Tonight I’m scraping on my beautiful rocket
past McDonald’s wondering how long
‘til all the stars are dead. Summer
rises like bread or a chest breathing
onto another chest breathing heavy
air lush with the smell of our
neighbors’ swimming pools in full bloom.
If I could take you where I’m going
I would take you. Past stadium lights
the hills swell like strings and
my tires sprint over the earth
to accompany them in the lightning
bug-lit orchestra of our blood-splattered,
mythical birth. Inhale, then
infinite color. I could do this
on my own but I want you
to tilt my face to the explosions
saying, “Just watch, just watch.”
LAYNE RANSOM continues to exist. She has an online chapbook out on H_NGM_N and is a recent graduate of the New Writers Project MFA program at the University of Texas at Austin. She is an aspiring moon princess and loves Sting’s solo career. Those are probably related somehow.