Poetry By Christopher Phelps

      Maxwell GS CC




Afterimage



Stars in the sky bright enough to leave a mark
in the darkest parts of the country,
how is hatred possible?

Hatred, so man-made churlish,
so properly dispirited, why
does it thrive here?

For a few years
I had a theory: wretches
identify with wretchedness,

feeling better to believe
a god’s knowing better
than we did meant

those stars are God’s creation,
exclamation! The problem was
I wanted to give them that.

Let them have their twisted
faith and eat it, too.
I was ready to be eaten,

moth, hole by hole,
until I wasn’t--
until I had enough left

to want. Today
I saw an old woman mowing
her lawn in a florid heat.

I thought about
stopping from my run
to offer her some help.

But this yard, not so long ago,
had had a sign that told me
where to put my love.

While still moving I paused
in that memory. As the chords
slowed, I plucked

a thick ingrown twig
from my face. I imagined
leaving it in her eye.

I waved, anyway,
and her smile said at least
her hatred isn’t proper;

isn’t all-consuming.
As it usually goes,
in fits and starts

we forget the stars
are beyond consistent,
beyond even gravity

if sufficient mass
wants back in on itself.
Like pride’s famous fall,

edges’ double vision.
Something we could call,
I guess, forgiveness.


​
​
Christopher Phelps is a queer, neurodivergent poet living in Santa Fe where he teaches math, creative problem-solving, and letteral arts. He is searching for others who think poetry can be equal parts vulnerable and subversive communication. His poems have appeared in Poetry Magazine, Queerly, Palette Poetry, Beloit Poetry Journal, and The Nation. More information, personal projects, and a complete publication list can be found at www.christopher-phelps.com.