Forgive Us
Because we are so stupid, we confuse
convenience for pleasure and habit for
devotion. With every flush of the toilet
and every flash of the camera, we see
our place in the world less and less. I
must confess: I take solace in the mass
extinctions of the deep past—from the acidic,
anoxic seas of the Great Dying emerged
the ammonites and ichthyosaurs triumphant!
But I try not to fetishize. When we pull
our faces away from our lovers’ loins, we often
pull their hairs from our mouths. But what if
we didn’t? Given time, who knows what
iridescence our bodies might secrete
to coat those small tendrils and produce
a pearl.
Someone Teach Me
How does belief become felt and not
merely held? Held like a hot lemon seed
scooped from steaming tea. Felt like
the soreness after a hundred deadlifts.
You could tell me we can atone for
all the fine branches of the Tree of Life
we’ve unwittingly pruned, and I would know
this is possible. But who will gather all
the switches scattered on the mowed lawn
and bend us over the lap of penance?
Foolish question, I know. Only a child
could get into such trouble, ask for such
punishment and turn it, without meaning
to or realizing, into some perverse
pleasure. I’ve let two men beat me
until the skin of my ass was taut
and inflamed. I’ve burned
my tongue. It doesn’t matter. I make
the same mistake as you: I hold
so much truth in my mind at once,
I can hardly feel
any of it.
Field Note
If the departure of love is a great migration
of horned animals, then I suppose
I am the drying landscape
departed with the changing
of seasons. There are too many hooves
to count as they trample
the grass and the dirt,
kicking up
dust.
Carl Napolitano is a writer and visual artist from Little Rock, Arkansas. He received his MFA in fiction from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop and his work has appeared in The Rumpus, Oxford American, McSweeney’s Quarterly Concern, and elsewhere. Currently, he works as a library assistant and ceramics instructor.