<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
it\u2019s a shame to eat blackberries in the dark,\nbut that\u2019s exactly what I\u2019m up to when a man\n\nstartles down the street screaming, The fourth\ndimension is not time!<\/i> He makes me feel stupid\n\nand it\u2019s hard to sleep knowing so little\nabout everything, so I enroll in a night class\n\nwhere I learn the universe is an arrow\nwithout end and it asks only one question:\n\nHow dare<\/i> you? I recite it in bed, How dare \nyou? How dare you?<\/i> But still I can\u2019t find sleep.\n\nSo I go out where winter is and roll \naround in the snow until a sharp rock \n\nmeets the vulnerable plush of my belly. \nA little blood. Hunched over, I must look \n\nlike I\u2019m hiding something I don\u2019t want to share. \nAnd I suppose that\u2019s true\u2014the sharp, \n\nthe warm wet. The color is half the pain. Why \nwould anyone else want to see? How dare they?\n\n\n<\/pre>\n
\n <\/p>\n
\n
\n <\/p>\nGod Stops By<\/h4>\n
to show me how healthy He\u2019s been. He\u2019s\nsleeping more. He built his own gym.\n\nMostly muscle now, He gives me the fat\noff his steak. I eat because He offers, not\n\nbecause I need\u2014it\u2019s hard to feel hungry\nwhen everything in this world tastes small\n\nand wrong, like rubber grapes or sun-boiled\neggs. When I was small, I was certain\n\nthat what was holy was mine\u2014I caught\nmoths in the garden, pressed their wings\n\nbetween my thickest book, and waited\nfor new moths to sprout up and out\n\nof the pages. I ask God if He considers me\na cracked seed of grace. He says,\n\nYes, dear.<\/i> I understand. It would be exhausting\nto lead a life with careful consideration\n\nfor all things\u2014stepping over anthills, saving\nlizards from pools. I mean, if I was God enough\n\nto be idolized, every statue would be a golden\ndepiction of me riding a goose-drawn chariot,\n\nabsentmindedly resting my shepherd\u2019s scythe\nan inch away from their curved white\n\nthroats. Before God leaves, He clears the table,\npats my head, and presses two messages into\n\nmy palms. In my left, You are the bridge.<\/i>\nIn my right, You are the dust.<\/i>\n\n\f\n<\/pre>\n
\n <\/p>\n
\n
\n <\/p>\nNormal Everyday Creatures<\/h4>\n
I\u2019m going to show you some photos\u2014\n extreme close-ups of normal, everyday\ncreatures. A patch of gray fur, half\n\na yellow eye. When you guess each creature\n right, you guess each creature into being.\nSoon you\u2019ll have enough to open a zoo,\n\nand people will visit because it\u2019s not every day\n they get to see everyday creatures in cages.\nOh, of course your zoo will have cages!\n\nOtherwise you\u2019ve just got world around you\n and who\u2019s going to pay for that? Your father?\nActually, let\u2019s not talk about fathers,\n\nthey are boring and offer clumsy advice\n on toothpick drawbridges, on soothing\nsaw-grass wounds, on wearing the same pair\n\nof underwear four days straight like the Boy Scouts.\n I was never a Boy Scout, though I did dream\nof pinewood derbies and being afraid\n\nof the forest. I might ask you one day to go\n camping, and if you have the desire to dance.\nPlease, when we finish spinning, aim me toward\n\nthe river. Once, while jumping from stone\n to stone, I slipped into the river and scared\na snake from his underwater hiding place,\n\nand though he did not wisp his tongue at me,\n though he made no rude remarks about\nmy bony feet or the house I was raised in, I\n\nwanted to harm him. I was frightened\u2014\n I thought I knew where everything belonged.\nI do know the snake does not belong in these\n\nphotos. It is not an everyday creature. I can tell\n you this because this is my game\u2014I\u2019m allowed\nto give hints. And if, for some reason, you don\u2019t\n\nbelong in this space with me, getting fingerprints\n all over my glossy animals, then we\u2019ll journey\nuntil we find the world in which we both fit.\n\nAnd when the path grows too dark to see even\n the bright parts of me, have faith in the sound\nof my voice. I\u2019m here. I\u2019m still the one leading.\n\n\n<\/pre>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n <\/p>\n
\n
\nPaige Lewis is the author of Space Struck<\/i> (Sarabande Books, 2019). Their poems have appeared in Poetry, American Poetry Review, Ploughshares, The Georgia Review, Best New Poets 2017,<\/i> and elsewhere. They currently teach at Purdue University and in the low-residency MFA program at Randolph College.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Because the Color Is Half the Taste | God Stops By | Normal Everyday Creatures<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":1215,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[60],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thespectacle.wustl.edu\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1193"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thespectacle.wustl.edu\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thespectacle.wustl.edu\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thespectacle.wustl.edu\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thespectacle.wustl.edu\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=1193"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/thespectacle.wustl.edu\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1193\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thespectacle.wustl.edu\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/1215"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thespectacle.wustl.edu\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=1193"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thespectacle.wustl.edu\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=1193"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thespectacle.wustl.edu\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=1193"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}