Three poems from "the shell of things" by Jacob Stratman

Three poems from the shell of things

*

He joked when he arrived that he was glad
to leave tornadoes behind for a while. He was ready
to enjoy a fall and spring without paying attention

to the mixing cold and warm fronts, to the shapes of storm
clouds in the west southwest, to the stillness of the air,
and the silences of the birds to the sky’s sinister

Crayola yellows and oranges. He was glad not to sleep in his closet.
Then the earthquake hit, and the tremors continued for weeks,
and the talk of potential causes of underground missile

testing and geothermal drilling continued for weeks
after that, and the jumped and twitched at every slammed
car door or passing truck, so now he finds himself longing

for the opportunity to wait in the known potential
of tragedy, in the busyness of preparation, in the perceived
safety of knowledge. He longs to hear the words Doppler,

echo hook, wall cloud, to hear sirens wail calling him
home to the northeast corner of the house away from windows
and outer walls. He longs for a trauma he can understand.

* 

In the middle of prayer, in a large room, people still
and shaken from the earthquake, a woman’s chair collapses —
the one thing that still holds their belief, their attention,

holds it so that he hasn’t given chairs much thought until
he saw one collapse. Who comes before a chair quietly,
hesitantly, reverently? Who wonders if the chair will leave,  

will neglect, will reject, will stop supporting, will stop existing
as itself. Not one among us rejects belief in a chair,
he keeps telling himself, he keeps whispering to no one,

as the prayer continues, and the sound of crashing lingers.
An industrial strength metal chair loses its integrity,
loses its grip, and he is losing his faith in any thing.

*

He is not a believer in very much these days,
not even moved by the monk’s chants in the lower temple
here in this rewashed complex. He wants someone to lead him

higher, past the middle temple with its loads of gifts
up the stairs to the high temple at the top of the hill where no
monk is seen today, just thousands of glowing Buddhas without shadow.

Jacob stratman

Jacob Stratman’s first book of poems, What I Have I Offer With Two Hands, is a part of the Poiema Poetry Series (Cascade, 2019). His most recent poems are forthcoming in The Christian Century, Spoon River Poetry Review, Salt Hill, Bearings Online, and Ekstasis. He lives and teaches in Siloam Springs, AR.

Photo Credit: Staff