The old gods are at it again. Hammering the earth with thunder and lightning. Wind breaking windows, clouds blushing the sky grey-orange. Bruise me again, let the hail ping its heaven-worn shape into the roof of my Kia. Watch me crouch to pick up pieces of the burnt maple at the curb. My father would have a joke about the worth of things, something about insurance money. He would mean to call the things we own junk, but maybe it was also about materialism. Not tying up too much worth to the things you drive. But what else do we do with all of our days? What’s left if not to worry over everything that makes us happy. I lift an armful of branches with my neighbors. We pile it higher and higher. Silently, we mourn the thing that looks so beautiful now that we can’t have it.
Andrew McSorley is the author of What Spirits Return (Kelsay Books, 2019). He holds an MFA from Southern Illinois University and his poems have previously appeared or are forthcoming in journals such as The Minnesota Review, UCity Review, HAD, Gingerbread House Literary Magazine, and many others. He lives and works in Appleton, Wisconsin. His website is www.andrewmcsorleypoetry.com and you can find him on twitter @andrew_myron.