Ed Jay

Ed Jay (AKA/Ed Parris) holds an MFA in poetry from Eastern Washington University. His work has appeared in Poetry, New York Quarterly, Hawaii Review, Colorado Review, Blueline, and many other literary magazines. His website is www.edjaymfa.com.

 

 

What dream

 

recedes to this dark shape?

Chicago’s lake shore museum

Where naked wax homo-erecti

kneel over plastic fire,

dinosaurs remembered in stone. 

 

But take mountains,

and put modern insurance man

(homo-and-auto) between mountains

where water tumbles over rock

streaming to tall grass meadows—

 

Twigsnap / parting brush:  an elk

drinks there. In the weight

of his antlers, the family tree,

cervus canadensis, comes down

to Him to wake man from His

 

nightmare, move gently

through tall grass, brush into stone,

and when the last shuttle lights

cross the dark sky, even Chicago

is lost to the memory of stone.

 

 

 

 

Never mind

 

that breed of folk
who see art without labor

and victory without battle,

who suckle on your success
and carve failure into your skin.
When all love, labor and art are done,

they will stand at the well of your soul
praying for clean water
with no ladles of their own.

 

 

 

Lay me down

 

naked beneath young cedar. Let

me decompose to food for the trees,

the carbon they need to exhale

 

clean air. Let me be

resurrected molecule by molecule,

released by old cedar to the sky,

 

to float gently back to the universe

of stars where all life begins, loved

in those divine mother arms.