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