I kneel at the ghost altar—
a man who maybe could walk
but definitely could float
if one pushed him
into a deep pool—
steal back
all of myself
given up to
word of mouth
Others light candles
read the word grin
at sons/
daughters
drawing on each other’s
palms with fingers
A parliament of owls
outside the window
Swivel neck cracks
ruffling feathers
swallow their kill
They’re in secret meeting, I can hear
them
thank God
I will be gone
They want to eat me
alive, they say
Mildew and leaf curl around
my blighted body
Shit me out
pure, they say
I have never felt this
alone in a room
filled with so many
breathing birds
I have lost (or was it a desertion?)
my King
—
Elijah Matthew Tubbs lives and writes in Arizona. He is co-founder of ELKE “a little journal”. His work has appeared or is forthcoming from Hobart, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, and elsewhere.
Photo by: Ana Prundaru