Two Untitled Prose Poems

by Gary Young

It’s a joy to be subtracted from the world. Holding my son’s naked body against my own, all I feel is what he is. I cannot feel my own skin. I cannot feel myself touching him, but I can recognize his hair, the heft of his body, his warmth, his weight. I cannot measure my own being, my subtle boundaries, but I know my son’s arms, the drape of his legs, smooth and warm in a shape I can measure. I have become such a fine thing, the resting-place for a body I can know.

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My son stepped between two mirrors positioned to reveal an endless train of reflections stretching to infinity. When he looked at the string of his reflections left and right, I expected him to laugh, but he said, come home, all you children, come home.

(Both from Pleasure: Poems by Gary Young)

Published in: on July 9, 2009 at 12:58 am  Leave a Comment  
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Evolution

Evolution

by Greg Boyd

Somehow a crackpot biologist figures out how to grow a money

tree. When the first bud breaks, Grant’s face unfolds. Then the tree

doubles in size daily, until it’s taller than a redwood, its branches

broader than an oak’s. And still it grows, cracking sidewalks and

toppling buildings as its trunk widens, draining lakes and diverting

rivers as its root system stretches, eclipsing the sun as its billions

of branches, each bristling with hundred-dollar leaves, bud and

sprout. Giant seed coins explode like popcorn, fall to the earth, and

blossom overnight. Among men, those best suited for survival grow

wings with which to fly to trees. They dot the leaves like aphids, their

tiny mouths tearing at the green.

Published in: on May 30, 2009 at 8:41 pm  Leave a Comment  
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