I am no cartoon, emerging
unscarred from the twirling, crafty endurance
of a character larger than life
The dead don’t sleep.
You’ll see a little jewelry, a scarf, different sizes eyeglass frames.
You can get a lot of sweets
at our fine table. Or sit on the couch.
Cross your legs
eyes prominent gold ovals*head
and hands blood-copper*the planet’s
geography outlined across my cape, the gift
I lift under its pretty beehive cover is a box
Games and prizes, land and research
have waylaid your prodigal feet.
I don’t want to hold you up. But I do.
The arc of history could bend with you.
We have plenty of stories
The left side of the neck, the bottom of the big toe
A shadow in the garden, a prejudice against the wolf
Further without hesitating, not knowing whither
Not there? Any more than here?
Then where is God?
My father once wore one shoe and one slipper
pressing star moss and vole tracks
walking steep land
A stubbled saint fizzling in a twentieth century
incarnation, afraid to use
the cellar stair….
"Gilliland is a poet of witness and spirituality, grappling with climate devastation while also interrogating world policies and politics."
— Best American Poetry
"Across tightly-built lyrics, the poet establishes a levelheaded conversational ease that somehow makes room for celebration of the natural world, the inner world, and a sense of humor. Which is to say that Gilliland is full of surprises."
— LitHub
"Mary Gilliland turns every small, disappearing moment into something magnanimous and lasting."
— Ishion Hutchinson
"She is not afraid of delight, neither does she shirk the hard tasks of anger, pain, and deep caring,"
— Mary Oliver