Trade School

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Trade School


Because I received my Masters

in Divinity from a goldfinch

bending down to the dirt

a cornstalk like a long green finger 

scratching the world’s furrowed

brow. With what the maggot’s left 

of his eyes the barn owl 

at the roadside agreed to attend 

my dissertation. I defended 

how, this moment in Chickamauga, 

the battlefield is covered 

in aster, ten thousand for every fallen

seed, how four doe graze 

the abandoned church 

whose doors will not stay closed. 

At some point down the hill 

my diploma flew off 

the back of the bike on a wind

that smelled of hay row, rain,

the sweat of the big man

smiling in pain as he jogged past.

So you’ll either need to trust 

me on this or go digging 

yourself, deep into the archives.


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