And there were those who could not tell you what happened
They were found
Like that
Burning inside
At the edge of town
And if you insist
I can try
And make it mean something
But no poem has ever reached ‘the place’
I am telling you
These things have a way of becoming
Elusive when you get too close
We are each
alone
In it
I think
It’s not true
but then I see my brother
No shirt, no shoes
On the freeway
Trying to reach the river
Get back to God
Something beautiful
I have never seen a thing so clearly
As when he is about to go down
But doesn’t
I’m not saying that’s God
But it’s something
Bigger than us
And there are those who could tell you everything
So perfectly
They’re the poets who lie
To each other about everything
Everyday, so easily
Who’ve never ate the heart raw out of anything
To stay warm
Or connect their blood to someone else’s
I am telling you these things
Because I know what it is to stand so alone
You are the river
You’re trying so hard to reach
If ever I see you about to fall
And I’m close enough to make a difference
I will lay down the light
The landing gear
Because there are always those who have never struggled with themselves enough
And they are large in number
And we must do what we can
For every last straggling and struggling brother
The rest
is for the birds.
James Diaz is the author of This Someone I Call Stranger (Indolent Books, 2018) and All Things Beautiful Are Bent (forthcoming, Alien Buddha Press, 2021,) as well as the founding Editor of Anti-Heroin Chic. Their work has appeared most recently in Cobra Milk Mag, Bear Creek Gazette and Resurrection Mag. They live in a far too cold and snowy upstate New York, where they are waiting patiently for the Spring.
This poem’s featured image was created by Alexandru Acea.