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issue 3


3 poems by
Christopher Davis
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The Grand Canon


great reservations, seen them?

sardines in a clump of dirt.

tractors. bicycle vans rolling

down a

desert. potholes and scorpions, whisking

to and fro under late evening sun.

the land of snakes, Indians,

and white men.

here I am, Arizona. caught in a flux of movement,

speed. dangled my legs off the canyon until my

mother cried…did I enjoy it?

well yes. I did.

kicked rocks into the gorge;

followed their zigzag descent by

tracing their flight patterns

into the softly packed soil. no one was laughing, not even

mother earth. gravity, according to

everyone, was no joke.

my mother pleaded, but I swayed. dilated I looked

emphatically down at the canyon

floor. my legs

stretched as the sinews fought

gravity like a bird with one wing.

I held on. considered the fate of the rocks,

the state of my mother.

I was ashamed at having suicidal thoughts

in one of our greatest National Parks.

was this really an effective way to spend my day?

my mother in tears.

my body all but on the canyon floor.

so we left

and stopped at a reservation

later that day; I bought my mother a feathered necklace.

I told her with it, we could fly

anywhere. she didn't think that was funny.

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