Some Writing from Contributors to the Sable & Quill Anthology v.1
a city condo/hiding out from god
Kimberly White
Here, god walks
on homeless feet with grimy dredlocks playing congas for quarters while
watching from a sidewalk bar where he has just been served another dry
California red
Here, god rides
the bus home to Chinatown, holds a strap in the aisle, wears a face still
stained with his workday
Here, god walks
the streets in tight-laced skirts, bursts out of a rented bed wearing only his
cowboy boots, paints the bay from a pallette strapped to his kiteboard, pitting
a wind that whips one way against a current ripping the other way, wears a pure
white silk shirt and pink-tongued sneakers when he walks with his Saturday
night girl, serves serious gin and tonics to tourists blue with San Francisco
summer, drops into a gallery to view a show of works by his most serious rival,
recommends the sushi restaurant on the corner even though he’s a vegan, sells
music on the street to those who listen but cannot play, sells art to those who
cannot paint, sells flowers to highrise prisoners, sells food to those who
cannot cook, sells beads to those who trade in islands,
walks past
brick churches without checking the locks, stuffs anarchist fliers in the
mailboxes, reads poetry in a red beret with a thriftstore brooch, writes plays
with her immigrant husband who says he knew Janis, works a concierge desk but
can’t give you accurate directions because she’s not from around here, rides
Friday night streets with his vatos in a tailfinned convertible
Here, god
graffitis an alley with benedictions in pictures, digs out a crusty trunk
filled with his grandmother’s secret life
Here is where
god has been tending bar forever and a day and the pepper steak is as good as
it ever was
Here, where god
played the 49ers every Sunday, giving the churchgoers time to be by themselves
where god
dropped acid with Ken Kesey and the Grateful Dead and was inspired to rekindle
Burning Man, where god’s underbelly casts its most colorful glow, where god
flies on pigeon wings, pecks at the cracks in the streets while dodging taxi
tires and steel-toed boots
rooting at the
edge of himself, where colors and landscapes reinvent it all while god sleeps
like the city
where god
hides.
(After reading Raymond Carver’s poem Gravy) Hal Freeman
When the time arrives
and the Reaper leaves his card,
I will remember those times
when fortune shined:
When she said yes
When our boy first smiled,
When the choir sang the
Hallelujah Chorus and
wrapped us in a blanket of sound,
when the moon dipped over
fields of wheat, on those soft
nights in the back yard,
when the morning came and
the sun, as bright as a blade,
slipped through the blinds,
painting the covers with
yellows and reds.
When I heard the sibilant whisper
of my sister’s breath
as she lay
sleeping on the canvas cot at the
foot of my brother’s bed.
When the smell of bacon wafted
through the hall way and the
sound of grease pop, popped
in the pan,
when Spike’s cold nose dug
under the covers searching
for a hand to pet.
When mother laid her hand
on my shoulder and murmured
in my ear.
It wasn’t what she said
but that she was there,
and Pop was there,
and the moon returned
every night.
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