I’m rubber, you’re glue
God fills the cracks between leaves,
the helix of the wind, splits the worm
but the worm lives on.
God cracks the leaf like an old hand,
helixes a whirlwind and worms
into wood, wormwood with hallucinations
of a dirigible sorrow.
God is a dirigible, a hero of DNA,
an old hand who reaches a sunflower
and stipples it like Van Gogh
after drinking wormwood.
God is an ear, served by a painter
whose DNA was cracked by old hands,
stippled brain tissue wormed to the core.
God is the fly that lands on Van Gogh’s
ear and gains sustenance from the carbon,
the boy beside his parents who stares
at sunflowers and sneezes, the snot that exists
to keep the nasal passages from infection.
God is the infection, the breakdown
of brain cells that results in dementia
or melancholy or a knife to the ear,
torrents of ache that overwhelm
the boy years later as he writes this
and years after he writes this.
God is the pen that writes the ink
of the boy keeping himself afloat,
Can you hear me Van Gogh?
Can you ear me Van Gogh?
Tree of Knowledge as Sleeping Beauty by Rena Yehuda Newman
Dan Grossman is a writer and educator from Indianapolis. He has published short stories, book reviews, travel pieces, and cultural essays in a variety of publications such as Jewish Currents, Marginalia, and Subtropics.
He currently lives in Philadelphia.