Zack Orsborn

I tried to grasp noxious nothing: the universe showing me a tree branch that looked like an arm

hugging the void of gray morning, rhapsodies of birds, feet on gravel, crunching while I unfold a

new music in me. A purpose. Fingers on keys, digesting melodies, songs born in my mother’s womb,

volumes turned up that I tuned out—no more. 

 

God said bend over: I clawed through soil, made friends with worms, learned the meaning of mud,

stopped to clean my fingernails, sculpted with the mess, further further further, until I was on the

other side of the world, a myth only if you’ve never gotten past the earth’s molten core. Now I’m

flipped upside down, covered in dirt, and God says—I will heal your aching back.