(POETRY)
JORDAN, NOT THE RIVER
DANIEL EDWARD MOORE
JORDAN, NOT THE RIVER
DANIEL EDWARD MOORE
In troubled times, you’ve heard it said, I’ll meet you on the river’s other side.
But what if glory’s muddy banks are only made for faithful folk, spiritual swimmers
who’ve trained in the tubs of cheap motels and baptismal fonts, religious athletes
muscled and scarred by years on suffering’s hot dry shore? What if I don’t believe
in a river’s claim to theological fame, in how the waves can batter the heart into
toxic don’t eat the fish kind of days. I know what you’re thinking.
Who is Jordan and how did he calm this sinful surf? That’s where you come in.
Imagine standing outside an E.R. on a warm April night in Manhattan.
Imaging your lover Jordan’s inside burning with a fever of 103 and neither of you
brought bathing suits. Neither of you brought Lifeguard cards signed by a Red cross
woman from Queens when you were 16 and the word called “Flu” only meant
someone had caught a plane and at this very moment was leaving you there to paint
the future in sunscreen. That’s where I come in. To praise our fear of drowning
the beauty floating on the surface of us, as an old gospel song waves its arms,
and our faces fade into Heavenly clouds not half as holy as Jordan.
But what if glory’s muddy banks are only made for faithful folk, spiritual swimmers
who’ve trained in the tubs of cheap motels and baptismal fonts, religious athletes
muscled and scarred by years on suffering’s hot dry shore? What if I don’t believe
in a river’s claim to theological fame, in how the waves can batter the heart into
toxic don’t eat the fish kind of days. I know what you’re thinking.
Who is Jordan and how did he calm this sinful surf? That’s where you come in.
Imagine standing outside an E.R. on a warm April night in Manhattan.
Imaging your lover Jordan’s inside burning with a fever of 103 and neither of you
brought bathing suits. Neither of you brought Lifeguard cards signed by a Red cross
woman from Queens when you were 16 and the word called “Flu” only meant
someone had caught a plane and at this very moment was leaving you there to paint
the future in sunscreen. That’s where I come in. To praise our fear of drowning
the beauty floating on the surface of us, as an old gospel song waves its arms,
and our faces fade into Heavenly clouds not half as holy as Jordan.
Daniel Edward Moore lives in Washington on Whidbey Island. His poems are forthcoming in Weber Review, Magnolia Review, Kestrel, Red Earth Review, Timberline Review, and more. He is the author of the chapbook, Boys. (Duck Lake Books) and his full length collection, Waxing The Dents, was a finalist for the Brick Road Poetry Prize. (Brick Road Poetry Press). His work has been nominated for Pushcart Prizes and Best of the Net. Visit him at Danieledwardmoore.com.
