by Joshua Gage
I would swear allegiance by every scrap of scripture in the world. My faith would be a cavern, a million caves to a million tombs, each with an angel that rattles my body like a tambourine and insists, “He is not here.” I would have the Sun resurrect across my scalp, my follicles igniting into doves and dermal vocabularies, each one a conversion. But then the cock crows, and I catch myself shaking my head yet again.
Joshua Gage is an ornery curmudgeon from Cleveland. His newest chapbook, blips on a screen, is available on Cuttlefish Books. He is a graduate of the Low Residency MFA Program in Creative Writing at Naropa University. He has a penchant for Pendleton shirts, Ethiopian coffee, and any poem strong enough to yank the breath out of his lungs.