by Christopher Phelps
From each of us a question
Is it the nick of time or the gash
that gets us is mine
a quick sip of bacteria
or cells on their own
in fortune that strikes
passing tense into a stroke
of light from a blank blue sky
the powder-pale ghost
six no seven days in the ICU
all of his words turned
into a single yeah
to every question yeah
without one no for us to hope
the someone we know
is able to tell
one from the other the most basic
of pressing questions can you
feel your hands are you
in any pain
yeah yeah
OK then who is this
who has come for a visit
yeah
even that one syllable
a little slurred curiously
without delay the nerves
eager to fire forward
or back another question
with eyes open time pretends
we have all day all night noctilucent
“faith” disquoting itself flickers
off and on searching for an
in what
now
his lips are blue
a small inheritance
a gesture from the sky
that has turned black
at the back of morning
Dad’s beeping body
mute as a pastel
scratched behind three others
leaning at the open end
of a thrift store
his colors alone with himself
his closest friends by blood
gathered “praying”
with eyes for words glued
to his eyes that seem present
in the room we’re left to guess
If he’s too deep to touch the bottom
how would he tell us over here
or I’m going down for a look or
please leave where I left off
Christopher Phelps lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico, where he tutors himself and others in math and related mysteries. He is queer and neuroqueer, a twainbow that underwrites his attempts at creative solvency and steadfascination. His poems have appeared in journals including Anti-Heroin Chic, Beloit Poetry Journal, The Nation, Poetry, and RHINO. A chapbook, Tremblem, exists as a secret item. Find more at www.christopher-phelps.com.
Emerge Literary Journal 