Carl Boon lives in Izmir, Turkey, where he teaches courses in American culture and literature at 9 Eylül University. His poems have appeared in many magazines, including Posit, The Maine Review, and Diagram. A Pushcart Prize nominee, Boon recently edited a volume on the sublime in American cultural studies.
Not all the gods are dead.
Some bring us beers in squat glasses,
still shining. I hold
Ilse’s hand and carry her past
one hundred goblins and seven old
wizards. The trees scream for us
to stop and the marigolds—burnt
butter—lean at us. The holy ends here,
a forest edge in a Faustus scene.
I tell Ilse the gods love us
for a day, at least, and her hair rises,
a cornucopia of sin and stuff
from books forgotten.
We are going to make a baby now
and call her Dreaddark Patter
or Wholesome Rot, for it’s Friday
after Sunday and Jesus is a star now,
a man for a Christmas card or Whitsun
frown. I feel myself being born
and rising and it doesn’t matter
if night’s an avalanche. We are happy
as shadows, lingering, wailing,
looking out upon the music
that carries us home.