David B. Prather

David B. Prather studied writing at Warren Wilson College.  His debut collection of poetry, We Were Birds, is forthcoming from Main Street Rag Publishing.  His work has appeared in several publications, including Prairie Schooner, Colorado Review, Poet Lore, The Literary Review, The American Journal of Poetry, Open: Journal of Arts & Literature, and several others.  He lives in Parkersburg, West Virgin

Man Who Pretended to be Timmothy Pitzen Charged

 

 

I can be your long lost love.  I can recreate the past

in ways you’d never expect.

 

I can walk across a bridge to become someone new,

someone to give you hope

 

despite all the evidence otherwise.  I can be a savior

come down from the hills

 

with promises like no other, but I’ll understand

if you are unconvinced.

 

And I can rise with the morning sun, pull myself

together from photons and rays,

 

from particles and waves.  I can be a phoenix

reborn just for you.

 

I know how long you’ve waited.  I can be

your hopes and dreams,

 

your miles and miles of Paradise.  And best of all,

I can be your prodigal son

 

come home begging to be taken in, begging

for the moment I am found.

 

 

The First Man

 

 

His name was not Adam.

That would have been too coincidental,

 

too Biblical, too much a miracle.

Short, dark hair, I laid my hands upon his head

 

as he opened his mouth and spoke to me.

I’m not talking about words here.

 

A slight paunch, he was older than me by a decade,

knew more than me of giving and taking, knew more

 

of the pains and pleasures the body can endure.

We never bothered with the fancies of the world,

 

not the dogwood tree bare and shivering a winter wind,

not the hint of weeds whispering through a chain link fence,

 

not the quiver of ravens

in a season too cold for reason.

 

We preferred hotels and bedrooms, showers and couches.

We drank top shelf.  We breathed our lines of blow.

 

There was no garden to walk through, nothing to name.

There was no creation set before us,

 

nothing more than our naked bodies in lamplight,

our knowledge martyred to our flesh.  Yes,

 

it ended, badly,

as these things often do.

 

But his name was not Adam.

Wouldn’t that have been too cruel?

The poems go here