The lightning struck him and left a scar.
The wind stopped blowing and the wheat stood up.
Self-tensed self, who is this I that says I ?
I had a scar in the shape of lightning
That split in half when I opened my mouth.
The sun just a circle of heat in the sky
Throwing absence in the shape of clouds
Down on the field. Another life placed
In the middle of the life I called my own.
A lesser god commanded the front: return.
A little god knocked about in the germ.
The third person put me outside my own sphere.
A small god chanting lightning in the synapse.
Wind blows the wheat down. He calls it prayer.
Source: Poetry (October 2007).
MORE FROM THIS ISSUE
This poem originally appeared in the October 2007 issue of Poetry magazine
Poet and essayist Dan Beachy-Quick was born in Chicago and raised in Colorado and upstate New York. He was educated at Hamilton College, the University of Denver, and the University of Iowa.
Beachy-Quick's poetry collections include North True South Bright (2003); Mulberry (2006), a finalist for the Los Angeles Times Book Award for poetry; and This Nest, Swift Passerine (2009). He is also the author of A Whaler's Dictionary . . .
Continue reading this biography
Poems by Dan Beachy-Quick