Building an Ark


In the little green sheets
suffering in sycamore crosses

your mother is still alive.

In the countless things she told you
waiting to turn red

you think you understand

the lone black cricket
drawing his bow,

hidden behind the evening’s curtain,
playing the same perilous music.


My father returns from a war.

He teaches me how to make a fist
between his thumb and little finger.

A trick of remembering places
I was sawn in two.

Trains me to dig trenches
to the sound of my name.

A disappearing act
through a trap door of blood.


The world mercies every sound
disguised as loved ones

straightening in a courtyard
of sloping flowers.

Luminous bodies of fireflies
shadowboxing epistles of headstones.

It’s a time when every sun
yellows the grass

and readies every cherry
to split wide open.

A mouth with something hard inside.


Talk will resume of the ark,
its building with pills and wine.

Somehow, your mother falls

as if rehearsing a star
and says, I’m just resting my eyes.

And my father, uncertain if he hears
thunder from the other side,

slams shut the windows
to God’s beautiful glass country.

Donavon Davidson’s poems have appeared, or are soon to appear, in: Moria, SOFTBLOW, The Salon, Spork, Barnstorm, The Fiddleback, Prick of the Spindle, Oak Bend Review, Juked, Pirene’s Fountain, The Montucky Review, 3:AM Magazine, Anti-, Arch Literary Journal, The Anemone Sidecar, The Pedestal Magazine, WordRiot, MiPOesias, Stirring, Evergreen Review, Barnwood, and many others. He received his MFA from Goddard College and currently teaches writing at the Community College of Vermont.

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