Bio Note: This month’s poem was inspired by a collection of essays written by Loren Eiseley, an anthropologist and natural science writer. I began reading these essays at the start of the covid lockdown last spring, and found them to be just right for the moment. The part about the young occultist and his suggestion is true. I have published three chapbooks, the most recent of which is Icarus: Anthropology of Addiction. I am English language editor for Poetry Hall: A Chinese and English Bilingual Journal and I serve on the board of the Council for Wisconsin Writers.
An Earnest Young Occultist at a Party Suggests
I Have Intercourse in a Graveyard
Maybe I do intellectualize too much. Alarmed at my lifespan being rooted here in just this one now, my life a subatomic particle immovable in the vast river of time or the way plants are stuck dirt-bound, unable to explore earth’s latitudes. Like rebel angels, my winged thoughts fly from my body to swoop from distant past to troubling future. We are made of fossils, even before we become one. Our sea-born bones carry ruined stars and ancient crustaceans. Let my grave be carved by a stream into layered sandstone. I’ll try crawling into it this bright noon and sink to those strata before spoken time before our ancestors jumped from the trees and crept onto the wide savannah. So, tonight, creep with me to the grassland of the graveyard and let the life pulse of your red river hurry to find its dead-end street.
©2021 Sylvia Cavanaugh
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