The Dead God | Kristen Hatten

The shadow of a bird or a beast
Splits the silhouette of an empty moon
It is the dead, deep hour.
Those ears of corn hurt where mankind went at it
And owls are bearing smoke away from the road.

You were golden in your heyday.
You were cold where they were green and warm.
A stare sits upon your eyes, so tiny and white it cuts.
You landed nowhere, lost in the vivid air,
And after the thunder and whispers,
Silence, a mouth, closed on the darkness.
Your heart emptied into the grass.

Oh, to sleep like the sparrow sleeps,
In shade or moss, where no ghostly slit of moon
Can startle me into talk or remembrance.
I lean over soft as ash to find you gone,
Gone in the clearest water I have known.

When we step down and tell the water to flood the world,
I will think of you.
When the rivers spill over their collars and the weeping peaks,
You will be with me.
And I will speak to a land of cloud,
These men, these foreigners,
To the dead god who floats,
To the world that floats beside.
I will speak of your endlessness
Hanging destroyed in a balance.
I will tell how it ends,
How at my heart goes the same wintry sea.




Kristen Hatten

Kristen Hatten is a blogger at Chronicles of Radness. You can read her first published short story in the June issue of Jersey Devil Press.




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