At the Point of Origin
I am drawn and re-drawn.
Nothing final including
the mind. Today I offer
this body like a mile
of sunrise. Soon, river
and more river. River dabbing
at blue, black, red calligraphy
in the day planner.
Then, monologue of eraser
shavings in the wind.
I retrace my steps, lead myself
back from the river I filled
with stones. Early morning
clears its throat to speak, yet says
nothing. It must be true: I was made
to be silent & beautiful.
Self-Apologia: August
How the weightless bullet is fired
at the boy & how his god has left
mud tracks across fourteen years
of childhood. How that childhood
is a bare field of belief, a field
for flattened tires and fatherless
pickups. How his god doesn’t
stand in the bullet’s way by the time
the shot rings out & how the boy
doesn’t realize he is not steel
but leaf. How there are no trees
in sight, no trees for miles. How trees
do not grow inside the church,
how Jesus would’ve lived if only he’d
hidden in the trees. How this boy,
is not Jesus, nor like him. He may only hide
in bushes and small holes. His god does not
let him climb. He can prove to no one
the divinity of his body. He may only
recall the last winter, and live until the next.
I am drawn and re-drawn.
Nothing final including
the mind. Today I offer
this body like a mile
of sunrise. Soon, river
and more river. River dabbing
at blue, black, red calligraphy
in the day planner.
Then, monologue of eraser
shavings in the wind.
I retrace my steps, lead myself
back from the river I filled
with stones. Early morning
clears its throat to speak, yet says
nothing. It must be true: I was made
to be silent & beautiful.
Self-Apologia: August
How the weightless bullet is fired
at the boy & how his god has left
mud tracks across fourteen years
of childhood. How that childhood
is a bare field of belief, a field
for flattened tires and fatherless
pickups. How his god doesn’t
stand in the bullet’s way by the time
the shot rings out & how the boy
doesn’t realize he is not steel
but leaf. How there are no trees
in sight, no trees for miles. How trees
do not grow inside the church,
how Jesus would’ve lived if only he’d
hidden in the trees. How this boy,
is not Jesus, nor like him. He may only hide
in bushes and small holes. His god does not
let him climb. He can prove to no one
the divinity of his body. He may only
recall the last winter, and live until the next.
Peter LaBerge is the author of the chapbooks Makeshift Cathedral (YesYes Books, 2017) and Hook (Sibling Rivalry Press, 2015), recently included on the American Library Association's Over the Rainbow List. His work appears in Beloit Poetry Journal, Best New Poets 2014, Colorado Review, Indiana Review, Iowa Review, Pleiades, and Sixth Finch, among others. He is the recipient of a fellowship from the Bucknell University Stadler Center for Poetry and the founder and editor-in-chief of The Adroit Journal. He lives in Philadelphia, where he is an undergraduate at the University of Pennsylvania.