Boot Prints on the River Bank
The grasses are lost
in their reaching,
and I too. Was once.
in their reaching,
and I too. Was once.
My thousandth
arm stretched,
chorded with sinew,
toward a heaven
without temperature
or scent,
as quiet
as the moon
pretends to be.
I was the river weeds
reaching for the feet
of loons, their buoyant
bodies holding up
the sky—
I was a violet, all splayed
out and gone to rot,
in love with being
in love with the world.
Christopher McCormick currently attending the MFA In Creative Writing program at Bowling Green State University where he works as an associate editor for the Mid-American Review and teaches creative writing and English. His work has appeared or is upcoming in Anti-Heroin Chic, The Shore, West Trade Review and Thin Air Magazine among others.
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