Darren C. Demaree is living in Columbus, Ohio with his wife and children. He is the author of “As We Refer to Our Bodies” (September 29, 2013) and “Not For Art Nor Prayer” (2014), both forthcoming from 8th House Publishing. He is the recipient of two Pushcart Prize nominations and a Best of the Net nomination.
EMILY AS THE SANCTUARY HURTS THE BLOSSOM
Whimpers come with closed peace, tight peace that crowd the green trees, circle to choke off the bloom. Astonished with the vibration, the continued rattle that fashions angry music at night when we most want to allow the wind to move us freely. We protect love. We shield love from all violence. Emily and I, sometimes lose sight of the blossom.
Magic and realism, we are the movement between the two, we are the screams that echo back and forth like those are our only two mountains. We have found the drugs that make that untrue, but they are dangerous. We have lost whole generations to the wager that there might be a third mountain, a man of a mountain, but that was before the good drugs could take us past that thought. We have a third mountain; we have made it piling animals on top of experiments on top of numbers that resemble the purest of stardust. We are competitive in our naming of this structure. We hesitate to stand on top of it, but our embrace of the slow rising proof of its strength has given our arms a reason to believe in the possibility of damn near any formula. We should close our arms around this pinnacle. We should not forget the magic or the realism, but the names we have given those places were too apt to replace them now.
We are with the rain first. We are baptized of this world before we are ever given a chance to resemble a single grain of dirt. After the clouds, we only resemble the dirt. We should remember how much we owe to the sky. We should know how much we owe the dirt. It gave us a landing. It gave us a second truth. It is our moveable acceptance.