Poetry By Christopher McCormick

       Øyvind Holmstad CC




Theory of Dust 

Each breath fills my lungs
with dust stars have spewed 
in their coughing fits. 

To write a theory of dust   
I flattened myself against the sidewalk 
in front of my house, palms skyward

and I’ll tell you, I could feel 
the Earth forgetting us 
one acre at a time. 

It reminded me that my mother’s 
first act of love 
was to expel me into this life

a star herself 
collapsing into lidocaine 
and general anesthesia

the loving
gravity 
of the epidural. 

On some nights 
darkness pantomimes 
around my bed  

while behind my eyes  
I recreate the tranquil eons 
before light crowned us

wondering what it’s like
to love dirt 
as only roots do. 

Today, my mother tells me
I’ll know my tomatoes are ripe
by the way they leap 

from the vine into my hand. 
How they need to be held by something 
they don’t understand. 

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The Music of Leaving 

Each moment is a birth
a fresh tear in the screen door
left swinging on a rushlit afternoon. 
Creaking wood may signify an ending, 
the moment a flame burns through its oxygen 
and fades. Whoever passes through 
is forgotten, then, in a singing of hinges, 
a rasp of air. Maybe someone who’s gone 
is remembered only by the trees 
whose gaze makes hairs of the arms straighten
like a chill wind whispering 
through browned Autumn grasses. 
Maybe there is no good way 
to record the music of leaving, 
whose instruments are a gloaming sky
and the faithful progress of rust.

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Christopher McCormick is an MFA in creative writing candidate at Bowling Green State University where he teaches English and is an assistant editor for the Mid-American Review. His work has appeared in The Mill and Working Artist Collective. When not reading or writing, he enjoys cooking for his friends and walking in the woods. 
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