Gregory Brooks
A column of light, gradually descending like a tractor beam
through the canopy of a rural forest, locks onto a farm boy
and carries him into the future: polygamy, migrations, death.
~
Angels, he dictates, are aliens of-a-kind: trust that they arrive
in numbers, for the chosen few—and if it pleases you to fly
within the belly of their saucer, get witnesses who won’t disavow
your vision, your manic free dive into the improvisational Divine.
The fringes always move toward the center, tin foil hats
flutter in and out of vogue—but we know their original purpose.
Tell no one and tell everyone. Hide away, make known.
~
A meteorite, hauling Kolobic germs, landed in Missouri
in the heart of some unmeasurable epoch—gave rise
to verdant networks, phylogenetic trees bearing fruit,
fauna prancing, practically begging to be named
by the humanoids: cataloged, eaten, worn by the humanoids.
God, who is shy of saying so, crawled out of a crater too—
conspired about the blazing sun and hit rocks together
until They learned how to make fire, then circuits, then planets.
They picked us up by the nape of our souls, huffing
in disbelief—a chicken trying to comprehend the egg:
and our hands, writing verses about shadows, cracks
aglow with daylight, our bodies unmarked by time.
Gregory Brooks is a Pushcart Prize-nominated poet with work published in Psaltery & Lyre, Irreantum, Touchstones, and Warp & Weave. Greg believes that ex/post-Mormon poetry is a significant and undervalued aspect of LDS literary culture, with many more stories that deserve to be told. He appreciates poetry that revels in camp, pulp, and persona. Read more of his work at linktr.ee/bipolargreg.
