Chris McCann
Earthly Paradise of Carteret
The glistening dew
on the chain-link fence
reflects in miniature
the azure lakes that rise
with the ice melt.
In the strip mall donut shop
we stay up all night
on coffee and crullers,
the flakes of sugar falling
on the Formica tabletop like snow.
Someone should paint a picture
of this, you said, as we
watched the sun come up
over the auto parts store
with its shining chrome
and picture windows.
If there truly are ten thousand
things in the material world,
then why not write them all down
in a litany of praise?
The small dog in the shadows.
The busted taillight of a Mustang.
The surgical mask floating
on a rainbowed puddle.
I would do it, you said,
if only there was enough time
and I knew where to start.
The world lights up
like someone's idea of heaven.
It's right here, the tower
and walls of the prison
seem to say—don't let it go.
And for a second we have it,
we see it all laid out
like a painted Japanese scroll
far away from the earthly
world, a paradise preserved,
inviolate, impossible to regain.
Then let us become these visions
of storefronts, broken glass,
and grime. Since these
are the landscapes of our dreams,
let us populate them
with mountains and shadows
of mountains, and trees against
a yellow sky. Let us never
wake up.
on the chain-link fence
reflects in miniature
the azure lakes that rise
with the ice melt.
In the strip mall donut shop
we stay up all night
on coffee and crullers,
the flakes of sugar falling
on the Formica tabletop like snow.
Someone should paint a picture
of this, you said, as we
watched the sun come up
over the auto parts store
with its shining chrome
and picture windows.
If there truly are ten thousand
things in the material world,
then why not write them all down
in a litany of praise?
The small dog in the shadows.
The busted taillight of a Mustang.
The surgical mask floating
on a rainbowed puddle.
I would do it, you said,
if only there was enough time
and I knew where to start.
The world lights up
like someone's idea of heaven.
It's right here, the tower
and walls of the prison
seem to say—don't let it go.
And for a second we have it,
we see it all laid out
like a painted Japanese scroll
far away from the earthly
world, a paradise preserved,
inviolate, impossible to regain.
Then let us become these visions
of storefronts, broken glass,
and grime. Since these
are the landscapes of our dreams,
let us populate them
with mountains and shadows
of mountains, and trees against
a yellow sky. Let us never
wake up.
Biography
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Chris McCann (he/him) lives on Bainbridge Island in Washington. His work has been published or is forthcoming in Moss, The Pedestal Magazine, Interstellar Review, Noctua Review, Salt Hill Journal, and The Shore.
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