God of The

Shaker, aligner.
Rumspringa and huänta. The.
In heaven with postcards of the ocean,
child at your side who watches
flies make trails through flour.

You remember nothing, then everything,
then lose count of the days,
their rope ladders with no windows.
They have the best view, though:

Leaning on the sill, you're at ease
when you think for everyone,
on behalf of all of us
narcissism made beautiful.

The one creation story you can remember:
stars spreading until you called them back—
pets that ran to your shin,
bruises under their fur.

You keep your nicknames for us secret,
rewrecker, languor-heart,
your chrome reflection in the puddle
explaining everything except
how you made love's machine.

But it runs and you stick to the plan:
body forth, no time for more.
Once, after an insuck, you gave us a boy
out of iodine and a scalpel.
I carry a picture of him held inches above them,
thank you.

Thank you for more than you ever had:
your one friend the wind,
its ignorance of good and evil.
Thank you for not caring
if the Tree in the Quad exists.

Why think of that tree, you say.
One tree. Like any other
when you stand on the branch,
wave through empty space between leaves.

Copyright © 2006 Garrett Doherty All rights reserved
from the Southern Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission