Back to Issue Fifty-Five

Why I’m A Xtian

BY SAM BAILEY

 

It’s about loneliness like a flower that explodes in your face when you go down to kiss it. That’s what

it’s about. I don’t make rules. It’s about the trucker hat with the netting in the back like a bunch of

gnats got sucked there by a magnet. It’s about the sun breaking its one fucking rule. It’s about the

recycling bins blue as spring. It’s about the bones in us, sweetheart. It’s about the way you walk down

the street observing these things and thinking your life is halfway over, twice, and is that the smell of

rhubarb? Sure. And that’s the smell of everything else in the world that says it won’t harm you. It likes

it, not harming you, everything else. Paul, I’ve forgotten you. But I haven’t forgotten what it’s about.

I pocket the Gospel of Barnabas. It’s about bicycles all jacked up by the sidewalk. About the bulls

tattooed on the sidewalk. The lessons of puberty. It’s about egoism, undone, forever. It’s about cars

that drive by me on a mission they won’t speak about. I know their mission. Who gave it. Poetry, I

need you to close your eyes for a second. Paul, now it’s just us. When we get pulled past the Event

Horizon, our bodies will still be here, walking around Ellsworth Street. They’ll do things like push

strollers and give hugs. But we will be off like sparrows woke up in Wite-Out or an LAX plane that

never came back from the sun. Paul, that’s actually not what’s it about. What’s it about, being invisible,

is apricots on a Sunday in your grandmother’s backyard where the sparrows peck around for other

apricots and come up broke. It’s about the text. About neo-criticism, which gets you here and only

here and everywhere else in the sunshine. John Ashbery, go home stop reading this. Paul Sorrento of

the Anaheim Angels: Stay. And now that truly everyone’s gone, I would like to take my vows and

admit something to you, with kindness. Or let’s just do this. Get out the bullets. Roll them in your

palm. They’re joking. They’re not. They’re bigger than you. These shiny bronze ones that somehow in

the light seem pink.

Sam Bailey is from central Pennsylvania. His poems are out or forthcoming in The Yale Review, Image, The Missouri Review, Best New Poets, Colorado Review, and elsewhere. He’s a Ph.D. student in religion at Harvard University and serves as the Associate Editor of Peripheries and Co-Editor-in-Chief of Mark.

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