Please Hang Up & Try Again

by John Paul Davis

All I’m saying is, when I see those posters
with the line of footprints on a beach
illustrating the fable of feeling abandoned
but actually having been carried
by some savior, the frottage
of all the sand stuck between my toes
starts chafing again, which is not to say
I have never felt sheltered, but only that if I was carried
in God’s mouth, say, after my divorce,
when the money was all gone
& the work had dried up,
there’s no reliable means of knowing.
Maybe it was dumb luck.
There was an empty room in that house,
on the crooked part of the riverbank,
or maybe there was no room until good friends
made room. There are so many colors
the truth could be & the colors change color
depending on what colors
they’re next to, but somehow I found shelter
& I’m still learning what that meant
for me all these decades later. To say it was a bed
press one, to say bridge, press two, to say wing
press three, to say song, press four,
to return to the main poem, say main poem.

All I’m saying is, I could not say,
I could not see whose mouth it was carrying
me. The trouble with faith 
is how much it’s like lying on the floor, 
face pressed into your couch’s front skirt, 
while you wand one arm back and forth
like a windshield wiper trawling 
for your missing keys, 
but faith is also remembering how a wolf carries 
its own offspring gently between the snap
of its terrible jaws. Some people say
God speaks to them when they pray
but how do they know it’s God
versus, say, their own inner voice
or something they half-remember
or anxiety or wishful thinking.
How does anybody know anything?
To say knowing is a school bus, 
press one, a firetruck, press two, a wagon, 
press three, a cave
well, you know. To trade this for a rhyming couplet 
that ties this up in a neat bow, say save me.

All I’m saying is, I loved the taste of the breeze
under the oak thicker than a sedan
whose roots gnarled their way right into the river
outside my window the year I spent
hiding, or was it healing. All I’m saying
is, you could say it was a chrysalis,
or a tomb, or an offering, or an opening.
To say key, press yourself against it, to say coin
press down with all your strength,
to say closet press the door
until the latch shatters,
to say lock, press on
even though you feel like surrender
is your only option. To return
to any of this making sense, say 
what have I lost
but you just get sent to another menu
of bewildering choices

All I’m saying is, river
rainstorm blackout theft.
To return to yourself
before you wreck
yourself, say what kind of animal
am I? Ask everyone
you pass, because they might could see
what color you are between the holy teeth,
they might could say
what shape is the wildness
that carries you, or name
the song it howls,
or identify it by its footprints
left there in the sand.

::

John Paul Davis is the author of Climbing A Burning Rope (University of Pittsburgh, 2024) and Crown Prince Of Rabbits (Great Weather For Media, 2017). His poems have appeared in numerous journals including RATTLE, Bennington Review, Spiritus, Maine Review, and others. You can find out more about him at www.johnpauldavis.org or find out too much about him at @johnpauldavis.bsky.social.

Image: “New Song” by Sarah J. Sloat

ID: A collage featuring a record player surrounded by pieces of landscape, produce, and brightly colored lines.