The first three lines of this poem came to me when I was driving to work, passing Atlantic Station and approaching GaTech’s campus. I intended for it to be mysterious, a little ambiguous, but still evoke (or invoke) gridiron imagery. It turned out to be just a smidge sadder than I planned.
The pastor hands me a picnic basket
assures me
It’s made from a real magician
I peer inside
snag my wrist in a twine
of ankle tape
still moist
from an ancient wound
The pastor hands me a silver bucket
implores me,
You only have to hold it
I do as I’m told
crack my knee cap
still sore
from the last trip to the ground
The pastor hands me a velvet locket
rearranges me
Now, you’ll pass through like the light
I recline behind
rip my shoulder blade
through veils
attached to his heeling falsehoods
The shimmering grass exhales
snatching my fortress with it,
holding my light magician
trampling beyond an unwanted goal line.
–YiQi 7 March 08 9:04 AM
