The God of Glen Ellyn Answers Me
by Aaron Sandberg
I asked him what it was like.
He said he was an eagle—
gliding over houses and yards—
looking for small dogs to snatch.
I asked about fate.
He said he knows how this ends—
said it was like remembering
plots of movies he’s never seen.
I said I get ideas sometimes.
He said you’re a modern marvel of engineering
but you need to lock the front door.
I said please put on more skin for this.
He said nothing,
then said he was sorry he wasn’t listening.
I said something in reply.
He said you had cut some telephone wires
against the house with the edger,
that it didn’t matter,
and neither had to guess why.
I said I’m sorry I get scared
when the ice cracks and melts in my glass
and asked if it’s an omen.
He said he doesn’t give forgiveness—
life is just loose ends.
I said I thought I’d see myself on Sundays,
but this midwestern fear of far-off mountains
always kept me inside, and the flood—
not the fire—gave me a fever.
He said I shouldn’t worry,
and that this will be a beautiful place to die.
november 2nd, 2020Aaron Sandberg resides in Illinois where he teaches. His recent poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Asimov’s Science Fiction, English Journal, Drunk Monkeys, The Racket, Writers Resist, Yes Poetry, Unbroken, perhappened mag, One Sentence Poems, Vita Brevis Press, Literary Yard, and elsewhere. You might find him—though socially-distant—on Instagram @aarondsandberg.