Christopher Greer
A Path Beaten Hard

The heavy heat of horse country
sits atop my shoulders, too
burdensome a cross to bear in late October.
Quivering temples, a rumbling
stomach reminding me
all things must eat.

But they will wait.
Wrapped in wood and wire, swaddled
in shit, shedding pelage.
Doing what they do, day in, day out.
Anticipating a meal, maybe even
a little conversation.

de Soto's spirit speaks from deep within
the tangled tendrils of this place,
Kingdom of the Sun: Black Sink. Silver Springs.
Traveling a trail hoary wanderers walked,
I will do my duty and
tend to the rabbits.

God, be with us.

All things must eat-even the dying.

Upward '86

for Christa Mcauliffe

We have main engine start.
"Up, up and away!" Superman
would say. Now heading
downrange. Slipping the surly
bonds of Earth, we're christened by
requited dread-ecstatic
to ascend. Downrange distance,
three nautical miles. Chaos
beneath my borrowed feet,
electric halo around my
head. Not too fast, Jesus, not too
slow.steady as we go
upward. Roger, go at throttle-up.

Cleromancy through smoke
and fire, a seventh casted
lot. Lights-swallow me up,
God                      Obviously a major malfunction.

We are astronaut.

_ _

Christopher Greer's work can be found in The Blue Mountain Review, Cholla Needles, Poets Reading the News, Visitant, and other publications. He lives in Alpharetta, Georgia.

>> Back to Issue 21, 2018