Inheritance

Walt Whitman and Allen Ginsberg were
my godfathers. I decided this at thirteen
after a trip to the thrift store, coming
back dusty and elated.

One of them was dead and
the other very busy. Still, they did what
they could, leaving instructions.

Don’t let anyone frighten you out of your
natural state of ecstasy. Don’t cross bridges
without contemplating the entirety of humanity.
Don’t refrain from talking to people long gone,
or not here yet.

Think about metal, sunflowers, avocados, angel-headed
hipsters. Be a courage-teacher. Contain multitudes.

I have tried. I have walked in the supermarket late at night
looking for them holding hands. I don’t know if they expected
a daughter. I can’t grow a beard. What would they say to me,
buying my frozen pizza? Judging the bottled water.

I mourn too, I say. I think of him too, when I see lilacs.

On Wednesday

Crossing the 4th St. Bridge.
I saw. He had just jumped.
Someone's son, dead on the road
below. My son, alive in the backseat.

My first baby, dead inside me. No
surgery needed, body did it all for me.
Broke me the news:
You can't
You can't
You can't
Have what you want.

What is a mother? The one who claims
your body is your mother.

I can not breathe so much.
I have to spend so much time
telling myself to breathe. Hey,
I am not underwater. Breathe.

I don't want to be there on the road.
I turn to the baby in the backseat.
"I'm here."

Christine Davis teaches writing at Northern Arizona University in Flagstaff, where she lives with her husband, Justin, and their children, Jett and Cadence. She moonlights as an instructor at Johns Hopkins University's Center for Talented Youth. Her work can be found in Snapdragon Journal, Paragon Press, Clarion, Crack the Spine and more.