The Only Witnesses by Nate Maxson

Typically expecting lightning to strike twice
I end up spending a few hours extra, post-lightum if you will
Waiting in a field for the miracle to prove itself scientifically
You can stand next to me if you want, I won’t bite (but not too close)
And I know, this bears a resemblance to the old “Linus and The Great Pumpkin” fable
Which nobody will remember in fifty years so what’s the point of explaining myself again?
Don’t get me started on the iconography of cartoon sainthood: I still have a few more years at the community college before I’m ready for my exam
And my jovial mood here at this junction despite my lack of a winter coat can probably be best attributed to my having mastered the most sublimely quiet of bird calls, the ninth degree winged mating songs or shotgun wedding ballads as the case may be
Why do you think you’re standing here?
I’d offer you something to eat
A garish communion off the decomposition of my martyrdom
But I’m afraid
(You my shadow audience and surrogate androgyne have no need to be)
I’m being whittled
By an unseen hand
Down to the pretense
Of a tree falling
And no one believing
Until the light (so we know at last it’s human) repeats a note
In the sequence infrared

Nate Maxson

Nate Maxson is a writer and performance artist. He is the author of several collections of poetry including ‘The Whisper Gallery’ and ‘The Torture Report’. He lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico.

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