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Irruption

 


He says, “…look…,” and I do. Because

he has always been present, like creation

myth, like before primordial mountains,


before he and I were proto-; before pre

would have been there, when the dog was 

being punched and I stood too close, like


pebbles to the face; would have been there,

to yell “You lie,” an Atlas in the river

poplars when another one said, “I don’t


know how to love you, but I do.” He wants

to show me a mastery, and it’s hard to ignore

the Jesus references: he’s side lit by 2pm


morning light, lips parted, almost a murmur,

almost a prayer, he points an explorer’s finger—

“There…” Brown-breasted, I am full of black


bird anger, but knew the truth he spoke painting

the underhangs of my house blue, inviting

the sky to be at home with me, trust the flap


of pages like wings to light on “Here”—a tern-

and “There”—a frenzy of motion—a hawk. In

his eyes, magnified, I see he is closest to flight.

Since we have been on this pellet of bones and skin

dust, the 63 zeros nest cast and claw, evidence 

of those beyond dragon-filled waters, and I wonder


each year, if it’s this magic he seeks, a feather

among the hissing mushrooms, a marker of

existence, in this land of lost moisture, smeared


clouds—hunters and watchers silently knock 

at leaves and grubs, when he says “…Look…”

I open myself to molt.







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Praisesong for the People

a project by Amanda Johnston 

2024 Texas State Poet Laureate 

This project is made possible with support from the Academy of American Poets, the Mellon Foundation, the Writers' League of Texas, and the Texas Commission on the Arts. 

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