Poetry by Theodore Langdale
say there was no god,
and i brought you to my hometown
one summer without fearing for my life,
or your life. you know how it is.
say that god is just the thing
i hold to my chest when you’re
not around past 9 o’clock or
here at all, close enough for me to say
this is the street i grew up on,
this is the tree i carved my initials
into when i was not who i am today,
this is my body, please hold it softly
the way i was never held here before.
say that god flies overhead at sunset
every night with the crows, 6:30 sharp,
like clockwork. like the sound of
bb-gunshots and newly broken wings,
like the way i never said i love you here
and meant it, or wasn’t afraid,
crows flying south to roost each night
like a bad omen becoming routine.
say we’ll leave god on the coat rack,
just this once, say we’ll have love and
money and i’ll see you every morning
over a bowl of cap’n crunch
and the crows can fly by the hundreds
without so much as a sound.
it’s warm here, always warm, and god
how i miss your face. i’ve been so good,
god i’m so good at waiting patiently
for my men and my miracles
and my microwave chicken fried rice.
say there was a god, once,
sitting at the dinner table and
refusing to eat his green beans.
say i could bring you home to meet
my mother and she’d say stay a while,
showing you pictures of when i was
young and embarrassing and still
not who i am today, but still me.
say you’ll stay the night and we can
find god in all the places i’ve
kissed you in public, unafraid.
say the crows come home early one day,
say they never come home at all.
Theodore Langdale is a poet from Southern California now living in Manchester, England. His work has been featured in SCAB Magazine, ORIGIN at Dunham Massey, and Young Identity’s forthcoming anthology. You can find him on Instagram @unholyfeline or in the woods, brooding.
Arcturus 