Even These Things Will Pass Away
poetry Z
Even These Things Will Pass Away
Homeopath in Jaipur, India
Beside the highway, a bird descends. Wait—beside me, outside the glass, a raven pulls airthe over its back, its body slender Beside highway, a bird descends. and swift as the light coiling back Wait—beside me, outside the glass, a raven behind mountains. Wait—the raven’s pulls airthe over its back, its body slender body is heavy as the water underground and swift as the light coiling back that thethe pecan grove can’t help butraven’s pull behind mountains. Wait—the across the desert. Broad-leafed green body is heavy as the water underground erupts thegrove rankscan’t and rows, that thefrom pecan help but pull irrigation water flaring with amber light across the desert. Broad-leafed green caught beneath. Like God erupts from the ranks and rows, at the beginning, the pecan irrigation water flaring withtrees amber light divide water from water, caught beneath. Like Goda new expanse of the heaven dotted the withpecan sweetness at beginning, trees in their arms. Yes—I am worried divide water from water, a new expanse over the coming Somewhere, someone of heaven dotted world. with sweetness consults figures of groundwater, in their arms. Yes—I am worried river water, average approve over the rainfall coming to world. Somewhere, someone aconsults new water line to the groves. Yes— figures of groundwater, river water, I anticipate the warm, sweet nut average rainfall to approve on line my tongue. The light aweighing new water to the groves. Yes— slides away, the raven descends I anticipate the warm, sweet nut over the desert, the grove, even over weighing on myover tongue. The light the high, coolthe mountains. Yes, slides away, raven descends the night—yes, the coming night canover resolve over the desert, over the grove, even itself into this. The bird’s body the high, cool mountains. Yes, descends, clawsthe outstretched the night—yes, coming night can resolve now, hovering in that instant itself into this. The bird’s body above the road, above the world descends, claws outstretched that draws away it so steadily. now, hovering in from that instant
Dr. Chohan, who can remove warts with a touch of a scalpel or thin blood with little sugar pills, was late this morning, driving up through sand on his motorcycle. He sat under a calendar that had a map of countries inside the body – linked up with tri-color wires twisting and turning. His open logbook summed up each patient with a brief diagnosis and scrawl for which color pill to offer. He is quicker than doctors back home, and never mentions money, waves aside the very idea, like swatting a fly. It seems he is working for love or is just fond of foreigners, advising us to jump the queue because “There are always too many there.” He neatly slices off my wart, and when I mention that my fingers are numb he says he’ll remove those too if I wish. I settle for pills, tiny ant eggs in a cute blue bottle worth saving. And then he takes my donation. --David Ray
David Ray’s 23 books include Hemingway: A Desperate Life, Sam’s Book, The Death of Sardanapalus, Music of Time: Selected & New Poems, and a memoir, The Endless Search. David is an emeritus professor of the University of Missouri-Kansas City, where he also edited New Letters magazine. He graduated from Tucson High School and now lives in Tucson again.
Zócalo invites poets with Tucson connections to submit up to three original, previously unpublished (including online) poems, any style, 40 line limit per poem. Our only criterion is excellence. Simultaneous submissions ok if you notify ASAP of acceptance elsewhere. Email your submission to poetry@zocalotucson.com. Please include contact information: phone number and email address. Notification of acceptance or rejection by email. Zócalo has first North American rights; author may re-publish with acknowledgment to Zócalo. Payment is a one year subscription. The poetry editor is Jefferson Carter.
photo: Cybele Knowles
above the road, above the world that draws away from it so steadily. --Julie Swarstad Johnson --Julie Swarstad Johnson
Julie Swarstad Johnson lives in midtown Tucson and works at the University of Arizona Poetry Center. She is an alumna of the University of Arizona and Penn State. Her chapbook Jumping the Pit was published in 2015.
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