Matthew Dickman

GOD & THISTLE

A fox was walking along

Cromwell Road

at midnight and was

not God.

A salmon was being lifted up

out of the river in the mouth

of a bear and was not God

and the bear

was not God.

But the thistle being blown by the wind

and washed by the rain

had all the makings

of the son of God.

I am the son of no man.

I am the god of nothing

but perhaps my four-year-old son,

I am his

God but maybe only for another

couple years.

I felt so insecure

when I woke up this morning

as if the circumstance

of my body had changed overnight

without me even knowing.

I got out of bed and followed myself

into the living room which sounds

like a place the living God

would live and looked

out the window at the rain

and the grassy field across

the street and felt

robbed of something.

I wanted to scream but I don’t know how.

Two little boys were in the field

throwing their umbrellas up in the air

and then stomping on them

like little policemen.

Yes, I thought to myself, that’s it,

you two know how

to be Gods even if your hands are cold,

even if the mismatched socks

in your rain boots are soaked.

A crow landed in the grass

near them and was not a God.

It’s beak was as narrow as a century,

sharp as a Bishop’s prick.

It kept opening its mouth

and calling out

to the boys, it’s feathers like a ribbon torn up

and then gathered back together,

its claws buried in the mud

like cavities, it was awful and amazing,

more powerful than a God

like a telephone.

In the kitchen I added milk

to my coffee and then carried it

to the front porch

and looked over the molted neighborhood,

the world I did not create.

I think we created God a million years ago,

I think we did it

the first time a father left

to buy a pack of smokes

and then never returned.

The only God I know

is the rain, and envelopes, antelopes, telephones

and redwoods. The only God I know is you.

BOUQUET & CHAPLET

I. Major’s Rose

In the roundest part

of the roundabout

a red rose has let one

petal fall the whole length

of the rosebush, all

fifty stories,

down into the wet

blades of grass.

It’s there that a ladybug

crawls onto the silky

pillow of the petal

and falls asleep.

If she has dreams they

are only dreams

of light and sound.

There are no figures

in it, no one being chased,

no one being killed.

II. Sharon’s Camellia 

Just like a french

pastry covered in pink

icing, like a very

fancy doughnut

you would both want

to eat yet not

destroy, my neighbor’s

camellia is bending

its head in the late

spring rain. If it had parents

its parents are

gone now, part of the soil

it has reached up

and out of. It is not

praying or worried.

It has found an ant

and whispers to it:

hello, hello there, I love you.

III. Joseph’s Carnation

Something purple

sways between the ferns

in the April rain

like a man remembering

a song, a woman,

a child, and remembering

them all at once

can’t help but sway.

A Minerva memory.

I remember being

in love and the moon

washing everyone’s

hair and the woman

I loved pinning

the carnation to my breast

which turned into

a breast of sunlight,

lemons, music and shade.

IV. Dorianne’s Lily

A star up above

my house shakes

its dust off at the door

like a child

with sandy feet and long

dirty-blonde hair.

I like how lilies

are for funerals

but also make the house

smell amazing.

They are like mothers

the way they

make you feel safe

even when you

have no money, not even

a dime. Star Lily and

Of The Valley. Tiger

and also Eye-Liner.

V. Michael’s Lilac

A blanket in the grass,

the spring air full

of water, sassafras tea

in old cups. The lilacs

hang down

off their branches like grapes.

Placed all around

the house

you would never know

that it was a house full

of dog pee and cat

pee, of children’s pee.

At night, when I’m

sleeping the lilacs

are awake and move

in the dark in the breeze,

they watch a mother

raccoon walk across the yard.

VI. Didi’s Magnolia

A candelabra in the rain

lighting up a creamy sky,

each flame looking up

and is the exact color

of the cloud it sees.

The Floridian

smell of them

sweeping the sidewalks

so that on the way

to work everything

feels pleasant. Not easy,

not simple,

but good. In the arms

of the magnolia

the wind is a long gown

made to swirl petals,

and hold more than you could

ever imagine holding.

VII. Mike’s Witch-Hazel

There’s a river

of witch-hazel that runs

for miles

separating the eastbound

and westbound

lanes of the freeway,

which runs from here,

where I am,

all the way to the coast.

My friend, if you

find me one day, lifeless,

could you lift me

into your arms and set me

floating along it? There is

so much healing

in the world and we barely

notice it. Its leaves—

bright yellow in the snow.