Jun 23, 2015

Eschaton

Written by J. Scott Brownlee

Read by Kimberly Ann Southwick

The rain pounding on tin but not passing through it cannot conjure blue
rust in the way feeling can
–oxidizing an iris to slate gray, to storm cloud, to fog gathering
on the April morning
when my father was born & cried out, mattering. In Burnet County
there were wildflowers then.
I like to think: “little crucifixions.” He kissed my cheek until three–
four maybe–until tenderness
missed its mark. Arrows he loosed forty-five yards away striking bullseye
targets were more measurable
than the space between us. The largest buck he ever saw he never shot
he was fond of saying.
I slowly came to understand the distances we were both creating every time
he told me about Troy,
Greece, Helen, & the ships sent for her. I want to hear his voice again & know
my Athens is interstellar
as a comet’s orbit though my own failing vision will not permit me to trace
constellations or apologies yet.
What am I but weakness when the past tense claims me? Salt of the earth
to the earth returning
or a spit-flecked prophet? Supernova, maybe? At the end of the world
I’ll hear his voice
& our conversations will return him to me & those wildflowers.
The sun will swell
to ten times its size, rise, & my father will draw back his bowstring again
without any effort.

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