In the pewless church of San Juan Chula,
a Neocatholic Tzozil Indian
wrings a chicken's neck. Through piñoned air,
...
Imagine the years being sucked out
of you, the losses so numerous
you counted gains instead: the shiver
...
Chad Davidson (born 1970 in Southern California) is an American poet and translator. Chad Davidson holds a BA, MA, and PhD in English from Cal State San Bernardino, the University of North Texas, and Binghamton University, respectively. He is currently Associate Professor of English at the University of West Georgia. His poems and articles have appeared in AGNI, Colorado Review, Hotel Amerika, The Paris Review, Prairie Schooner, Shenandoah, Virginia Quarterly Review, The Writer's Chronicle, and elsewhere.)
Consolation Miracle
In the pewless church of San Juan Chula,
a Neocatholic Tzozil Indian
wrings a chicken's neck. Through piñoned air,
stars from tourist flashbulbs flame, reflecting
in the reddened eyes, in the mirrors
statuary cling to, inside their plate-
glass boxes. A mother fills a shot-
glass with fire. Others offer up moon-
shine swelling in goat bladders, the slender
throats of coke bottles, as if gods too thirsted
for the real thing. The slightest angle
of a satellite dish sends me to Florida,
where the sleepless claim the stars talk
too much. They stumble to their own
worn Virgin Mary whose eyes, they swear,
bleed. Florida: rising with its dead,
even as it sinks into the glade.
Meanwhile, a coast away, the heavenly gait
of Bigfoot in the famous Super-8,
voiced over with a cyrptozoologist
who's all but laughed at the zipper-lined torso.
Bigfoot trails out of California
into my living room, a miracle
in the muddled middle ground of the event
horizon, in the swell between each seismic wave
where time carries itself like Bigfoot: heavy,
awkward, a touch too real to be real.
And the miracle cleaners make everything
disappear into faintly floral scents.
Miracle-starved, out of sleep or the lack of it.
I keep watching, not to see Bigfoot
but to be Bigfoot, trapse through grainy screens,
and the countless watching eyes, the brilliant
nebulae bleeding. Yeti, pray
you come again, you Sasquatch. Video
our world for your religions. Memorize
all these pleasure bulbs, these satellites,
our eyes, our stars. Look: how we turn
each other on tonight, one at a time.