Poetry
The Deviant Tree
by Mikal Wix
by Mikal Wix
Perhaps he’s the only one to breathe this rarefied air today
Sloughing off casual insults, blustering punches thrown
Skin folding over itself to thicken, like a hatchling’s shell.
Maybe he’s here to forget his father and all other barking breeds
To fool his mother out of worry, out of snot and tears
To lie to everyone except the poems and other mirrors.
But he’s not alone, barefoot and stoned by burls and bruises
Waiting behind this service station, out of sight for delight
For the eyes that lead to hands and back again.
Call him fag, girl, queen, but only if you are one
Or bud, dude, stud, if you want some
For the hands that lead to mouths and back again.
Worship him in rains that never end, like a Carpenters tune
From headwater to deluge, like the way a flash flood runs
Through an arroyo in May, claiming the filth his own.
Shelter him from the imposition of contempt by peasants
Priests, police, pundits, and scorn of other father tricks
Shifty ones claiming to save children from sophistry.
Love him in all the newborn moments behind places and in spaces
Bookstores, bars, the wharf, if you need some
For the mouths that accept what’s taken and given.
Treasure him for lovers who fold the laws into themselves
Partners, boyfriends, husbands, if you want one or two
For how to father the fate of fruit: peach, root, and tree.
Sloughing off casual insults, blustering punches thrown
Skin folding over itself to thicken, like a hatchling’s shell.
Maybe he’s here to forget his father and all other barking breeds
To fool his mother out of worry, out of snot and tears
To lie to everyone except the poems and other mirrors.
But he’s not alone, barefoot and stoned by burls and bruises
Waiting behind this service station, out of sight for delight
For the eyes that lead to hands and back again.
Call him fag, girl, queen, but only if you are one
Or bud, dude, stud, if you want some
For the hands that lead to mouths and back again.
Worship him in rains that never end, like a Carpenters tune
From headwater to deluge, like the way a flash flood runs
Through an arroyo in May, claiming the filth his own.
Shelter him from the imposition of contempt by peasants
Priests, police, pundits, and scorn of other father tricks
Shifty ones claiming to save children from sophistry.
Love him in all the newborn moments behind places and in spaces
Bookstores, bars, the wharf, if you need some
For the mouths that accept what’s taken and given.
Treasure him for lovers who fold the laws into themselves
Partners, boyfriends, husbands, if you want one or two
For how to father the fate of fruit: peach, root, and tree.
About the Author:
|
Mikal Wix lives in the American South, which seeds insight into many outlooks, including revenant visions from the closet. Their work can be found or is forthcoming in Corvus Review, Peregrine Journal, Berkeley Poetry Review, Tahoma Literary Review, Roi Fainéant Press, decomp journal, Olit, and elsewhere. They work as a science editor by day. |
