3 Poems by Chris Prewitt - Mineral Lit Mag Featured Poets Series
A Farmer’s Son
If loss has taught me anything,
it’s that the alphabet doesn’t arrive
in paper masks, committing arson.
In faith I could not say
to the spider, become the humid Tuesday
evening when I’ll die rocking
on a cluttered front porch,
and the mountain will move.
I do not mean that the alphabet cannot scorch
the earth of men and cattle. Do I not live
in this world, distant from all I love and choking?
Am I not a farmer’s son--
have I not my losses, my crooked spine
for proof?
If loss has taught me anything,
it’s that the alphabet doesn’t arrive
in paper masks, committing arson.
In faith I could not say
to the spider, become the humid Tuesday
evening when I’ll die rocking
on a cluttered front porch,
and the mountain will move.
I do not mean that the alphabet cannot scorch
the earth of men and cattle. Do I not live
in this world, distant from all I love and choking?
Am I not a farmer’s son--
have I not my losses, my crooked spine
for proof?
Why John K. Pratt Isn’t a Baptist Anymore
Supper that evening consisted of rising from pews and offering hands.
We left home with olives that dripped from a canvas of branches and an orient pink sky.
We returned home on a rich coral blue night, guided by the moon’s teat,
beautiful and empty as ever.
If I hadn’t been overcome by the tetanus of pulpit voices,
I might have danced in the dew of the grass
from which the mare ascended towards the golden-eyed pink swan of the moment.
Spare me the lyric, the prayers, the prosthetic claws of the clergy.
Eating a lamp is the only way out.
Supper that evening consisted of rising from pews and offering hands.
We left home with olives that dripped from a canvas of branches and an orient pink sky.
We returned home on a rich coral blue night, guided by the moon’s teat,
beautiful and empty as ever.
If I hadn’t been overcome by the tetanus of pulpit voices,
I might have danced in the dew of the grass
from which the mare ascended towards the golden-eyed pink swan of the moment.
Spare me the lyric, the prayers, the prosthetic claws of the clergy.
Eating a lamp is the only way out.
Chris Prewitt is the author of Paradise Hammer (SurVision Books), winner of the 2018 James Tate Poetry Prize. His surreal poems on Appalachian life have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. He has also received the Virginia Tech/Poetry Society of Virginia Prize. Twitter correspondence welcome: @poetcprewitt