My abiding image is ankle deep in creek mud.
It talks to me. Says things like “Daddy” and “see
this one?” I get a glimpse, but then I’m over its
shoulder watching low branches, broken bottles,
and ripples in water. How it begs for my attention. So I look.
I see through snakes and tick season, myriad broken things,
what I have always seen—through needles, tests, and doubt—
carved before he was carved. But today a cancer came
for his teacher and we need to talk about death. He turns
over rocks for hidden things and I tell him his life
is better for his time with her; how well she did. I say,
“Son, she poured honey over your heart,” and wonder
how anyone could ever hope to write or say or do more
than that.
Christopher Forrest
Christopher Forrest lives in Winston-Salem, North Carolina with his wife and three young children. He received his undergraduate education from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill and worked in finance for nearly a decade before returning to school for his MFA in Creative Writing from Queens University of Charlotte. After graduating, he joined Press 53 and has worked there as poetry editor for the last six years. His poems and essays have appeared in The American Journal of Poetry, Cagibi, The Ekphrastic Review, Heirlock, Storgy, and elsewhere. Outside of writing, he enjoys a busy and fulfilling family life, training for triathlon, and vinegar-based BBQ sauce.
Comments