DIA DE LOS MUERTOS by Paul McMillan |
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SAINTS ON THE ROOF
by Taylor Graham A boy whose mother named him Santos stomps across our roof this Sunday when the saints should be in church. Push-broom in his hands, he's secured by thin rope like an angel in an Easter pageant. It sounds like thunder up there. Can the house hold under his boots, as he sweeps a winter's burden, wind-borne gifts of trees heaped atop our sparkable eaves? Worry-beads to keep him safe up there on the pitched roof. Unpaid saints interceding, as I squint against spring bluster and sun-glare and pray for Santos on his tether, sweeping our shingles. Santos with his quick broom, briefly touched with Mary-blue robes of sky, this Sunday that’s not Easter. HARDER THINGS by William L. Alton The old woman next to me didn’t know I could hear her thinking. She worried about the aphids in her garden. A fine pain kissed her in her hips. She swayed with the train over the clacking joints. I wanted to tell her it didn't matter, I wanted to tell her the aphids would eat her roses, but the roses wouldn't care. She had harder things to worry over. HALLUCINATING WHILE CAMPING by William L. Alton Smoke rises from the fire and forms faces in the wind. I stand in the trees watching ghosts shape themselves in the sky. Their eyes are eggs rolling around the moon, bursting and falling in bright trailers to the weeds. I light a cigarette and lie in the dirt, sleepy now. Clouds come in from the mountains, folded and heavy with rain. Fog reaches up from the lake, slipping quietly into my lungs, my belly. I’m lighter than air, coming out of myself, separating from the meat, pure light. If I die now, I’ll rise straight into the clouds and dissipate. What better way to die than to simply leave? |
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