Ginger Murchison – Ⅳ
On Stone Mountain,
we’d go back toward time when
the world, without footprints, broke open
to the scraggles of leaf and limb with barely
a foothold at hairline cracks in bald, gray stone.
We would come with our lunches—him, just a boy,
and me, already the age of labored breathing—
rehearse state capitals, remember Huck, and hide crusts
for whatever had hunkered down waiting for dark.
Like grave robbers at the crypts of kings,
we’d stare into pools the color of soot, worlds
set to a different time, the fairy shrimp, ghosts
in chiffon, white as fear, life, sure enough, still
pushing out of pre-history, waiting to crawl
out of their tiny seas, nature intent, maybe,
on moving ahead without us, or back. Maybe
the world once looked just like this. Would again.
we’d go back toward time when
the world, without footprints, broke open
to the scraggles of leaf and limb with barely
a foothold at hairline cracks in bald, gray stone.
We would come with our lunches—him, just a boy,
and me, already the age of labored breathing—
rehearse state capitals, remember Huck, and hide crusts
for whatever had hunkered down waiting for dark.
Like grave robbers at the crypts of kings,
we’d stare into pools the color of soot, worlds
set to a different time, the fairy shrimp, ghosts
in chiffon, white as fear, life, sure enough, still
pushing out of pre-history, waiting to crawl
out of their tiny seas, nature intent, maybe,
on moving ahead without us, or back. Maybe
the world once looked just like this. Would again.