K.T. Landon   

 

Postlapsarian

The orange dreams of the orange tree,
of heat and the low murmur of bees,
of the days when it was almost but not quite.
The locket dreams of the dark, of running
silver and unimpeded through the earth,
before the hammer and the fire. The flower
dreams of the bud dreams of the branch
dreams of the seed dreams of the flower.
The mirror dreams the sound of the ocean,
dreams itself numberless. Our bodies dream
of the stars of which we are made. They dream
of the time outside time, that last instant
of heat and light before the universe exploded,
and we shattered, and anything was possible.

On Deism Versus Theism

The crane fly struggles in the dishwater—
the long legs slicked together, body
thrashing—and I cannot save her:
one more karmic failure. I should end her
suffering now, if I have a heart, but
that is not the kind of heart I have,
so I swoop down from the flies,
a deus ex machina for insects,
and blot her onto a paper towel,
wicking up moisture with the corners,
choosing cruelty and ridiculousness
for us both. She labors less—dying?
resting?—and I set the towel outside
in the sun. Half an hour later she is all
but free, one leg trapped in the weave
of paper. I try to ease that last delicate
limb clear, grateful that cowardice
has given me a chance at redemption
again, but in my haste I tear the leg
like the thin petal of an iris and watch
as she falls from my hand. Perhaps,
after all, the gods do not mangle us
for sport but rather from ordinary
ham-fistedness, for are we not made
in their image? Can they be other
than tired of our helplessness, of how
goddamned breakable we are? Of how
we want and want and want without
ever knowing what? The gods have
had it with responsibility.  It seems
even they would like to let go, let
some other god.  It would be easier
if they could just explain, we’re here
to help, but we would not believe them—
God knows, why should we?

 

 

Credits
“Postlapsarian” was originally published in Arts & Letters PRIME 3.1