J Campbell
Sinai
The distant marchers flash their signs, afire,
consuming air without the finite lease
of kerosene or timber. But no higher
power will call out: Moses, dear one, rise
thy rod! We’ve drawn ourselves outside the grip
of God’s full wrath; you, sleeping in the front,
with me beside you. So perhaps the trip
will heal us both, its sure descent – abrupt
caresses under a faithless gaping sun.
Your head, petite and tired, tenures the feel
of some child furiously dreaming, one
exodus replacing many. I’m unfooled.
Some children pace a separate road,
a futile longing for the face of God.
The Mountain Relatives' First Church Visit
The estranged nephews of my father's side
resolve into a line around the casket.
Slow-moving, close to tears, all of them allied
to the Old South, they wear black faded T-shirts.
The trunks of their broad legs stand under them.
Not one of them will wilt this close to death,
as if they were on the job to mourn their man.
Their hands unfold and graze the store-bought wreath.
Instead, beside the horizontal case
holding our common thread, they bring the air
that settled between the paths they traced
as children, running as recklessly as fire.
They break formation, tall as backwoods pines,
and leave the dead and living intertwined.
Bio:
J Campbell (Bats: Left. Throws: Right.) was born in Jasper, Alabama. His poems have appeared in lit journals such as Metropolitan Review and American Literary Review. Last year, he won the poetry contest held by Amy Fusselman's zine, Surgery of Modern Warfare.