“Let’s make up a story
Of how we arrived here.”
-Adam Clay
Maybe we are the flinty
point of an arrow
God shot from his obsidian sky
Borne of black heaven and reimagined
earth Chipped and shaped
precise Sparks lighting little fires
all around us Sharpened
until we could kill Bullseye
planted, embedded into a world, foreign
stench of decay lining our nostrils
Maybe we are ancient roots
uprooted, clinging
to clay, to hair, fingernails
dig into each other, into anything
that gives us form
We reach hard, stretch arms up and back
toward that heaven
which was once our home
Selected by Raymond Huffman
