by: The (half of the) Gill Brothers- this week
Note: As a form of mental calisthenics and an interesting form of keeping in touch, in their weekly correspondence Jeff and Patrick Gill send each other lists of words they could use in poems.
by Patrick Gill
He used to believe some dry hex would rise,
Would take him like a plague of strength
And turn him into something obviously less corporeal, at least something lighter.
He had watched The Craft that much as a kid, he wanted lip biting shrillness and animal power.
He used to believe that the box fan in the window was really
A cosmic force billowing from the Great North and he would
Lock his ligaments and throat, as world’s dust rode over him.
He kept candles, oils and plastic bagged-price tagged grave dust in a suitcase under his bed.
He used to believe the dust came from the ancient Sahel,
rattled off the primitive grass under hoof and foot
that it wasn’t just dragged under the wings of airplanes that passed every 15 minute, dirt from a farm 10 miles away.
He dreamed of it before he knew most mummy movies and whitewashed lore were Orientalist and trite
He took a field trip to the Field Museum when he was fourteen, to see his first mummy in person at a traveling exhibit
His black boots clicked on sharp tiles round the full scale dioramas and dinosaur bones.
He approached the climate controlled, hushed room, quickly stepping to the glass.
His eyes pried open the sharp chiseled sarcophagi with the pulsing hope of something renevant.
It could be here, it could be now, the moment when a fossilized myth itched and sprang;
Everything a young goth boy was supposed to believe in,
The shadows that promised a misfit embrace. Nothing came,nothing stirred,
nothing. Like fingers his eyes tapped the glass.
His mind then turned in an understanding that his hope needed something new.