Joshua Garcia
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Joshua Garcia's poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Arts & Letters, The Georgia Review, Ninth Letter, Shenandoah, and elsewhere. He holds an MFA from the College of Charleston and is a 2021-22 Stadler Fellow at Bucknell University.
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Hymn
Margaret doesn’t believe in hell,
and Rob isn’t sure about euthanasia.
I ask my friends about these things
because I trust whatever they’ll give me,
however formed or unformed.
Come on up to the house
or to the yard where we’ll build
a tent of meaning. What is it?
This stuff we build ourselves around,
build beyond our understanding: a naked
wood unhumiliated by the wash
of plaster, holes which have not yet bloomed
into the fixtures they were made for,
doorways that do not yet have doors.
Every night, I dream I have found
the perfect apartment,
a place I’ve already been but forgot,
a place to divide time into,
rooms painted a color that feels
good to open the eyes to. And windows
which sometimes permit too much.
A small apartment with a man and a piano—
I can’t enclose my hopes any more
than I can bulldoze my memories.
I used to think a house could be holy.
I thought, I don’t want to be penetrated
by anything but his body.
In my dreams, God turns my fixtures inside out.
Once, I fell, and a doctor put a staple in my head.
Just one. No need for local anesthesia.
And then, like an afterthought, Well, one more.
When God dropped me, I heard the snap.
Margaret held my hand.
Shea rubbed my back. My phone is ringing.
I am singing. I am singing.
and Rob isn’t sure about euthanasia.
I ask my friends about these things
because I trust whatever they’ll give me,
however formed or unformed.
Come on up to the house
or to the yard where we’ll build
a tent of meaning. What is it?
This stuff we build ourselves around,
build beyond our understanding: a naked
wood unhumiliated by the wash
of plaster, holes which have not yet bloomed
into the fixtures they were made for,
doorways that do not yet have doors.
Every night, I dream I have found
the perfect apartment,
a place I’ve already been but forgot,
a place to divide time into,
rooms painted a color that feels
good to open the eyes to. And windows
which sometimes permit too much.
A small apartment with a man and a piano—
I can’t enclose my hopes any more
than I can bulldoze my memories.
I used to think a house could be holy.
I thought, I don’t want to be penetrated
by anything but his body.
In my dreams, God turns my fixtures inside out.
Once, I fell, and a doctor put a staple in my head.
Just one. No need for local anesthesia.
And then, like an afterthought, Well, one more.
When God dropped me, I heard the snap.
Margaret held my hand.
Shea rubbed my back. My phone is ringing.
I am singing. I am singing.
Commentary
Joshua on “Hymn”:
“Hymn” was first drafted as I was emerging from some difficult health issues and the dissolution of my Christian faith. Both of these circumstances fundamentally altered my relationship to my body. In my faith, I believed the human body to be a temple for divine love; in good health, my body seemed like an instrument of possibility. Afterward, it felt like something unfinished, sometimes functional but often restricting. This poem wrestles with these conflicting notions of the human body as a container. The poem’s earlier drafts had a much different ending, but it is now framed by the human love that sustained me during this period, serving as a kind of shelter still worthy of praise.
Assistant Editor Dia Roth on “Hymn”:
From its opening lines, "Hymn" reminds us that human intimacy can be a safe haven from uncertainty, pain, and disillusionment. By layering images of shelter, space, and home, this poem builds "a tent of meaning" in which the speaker seeks to untangle a complex relationship to the body, God, and holiness. All the while, loved ones Margaret, Rob, and Shea watch over the speaker, ready to offer care and counsel should they be called upon—"When God dropped me, I heard the snap. / Margaret held my hand. / Shea rubbed my back." Calling back to its title, the poem ends with singing: a new hymn to praise these earthly loves.
“Hymn” was first drafted as I was emerging from some difficult health issues and the dissolution of my Christian faith. Both of these circumstances fundamentally altered my relationship to my body. In my faith, I believed the human body to be a temple for divine love; in good health, my body seemed like an instrument of possibility. Afterward, it felt like something unfinished, sometimes functional but often restricting. This poem wrestles with these conflicting notions of the human body as a container. The poem’s earlier drafts had a much different ending, but it is now framed by the human love that sustained me during this period, serving as a kind of shelter still worthy of praise.
Assistant Editor Dia Roth on “Hymn”:
From its opening lines, "Hymn" reminds us that human intimacy can be a safe haven from uncertainty, pain, and disillusionment. By layering images of shelter, space, and home, this poem builds "a tent of meaning" in which the speaker seeks to untangle a complex relationship to the body, God, and holiness. All the while, loved ones Margaret, Rob, and Shea watch over the speaker, ready to offer care and counsel should they be called upon—"When God dropped me, I heard the snap. / Margaret held my hand. / Shea rubbed my back." Calling back to its title, the poem ends with singing: a new hymn to praise these earthly loves.
