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Back Issues

Eric Anderson

THE COPILOT

No power in the rain-soaked city; Jesus
rides beside me in my convertible. He says,
You should come back to me.

He’s right. I’m getting old. It’s hard,
being so angry all the time, but still—

the rain stops. Top down, we drive faster.
Jesus sails his hand out the window and the wind
through the hole in his palm
hums a note so low
it vibrates in the bones over my heart.

I have some conditions,
I tell him. Some questions
I need answered. He smiles and

bleeds on the upholstery; beautiful.
All right, I say. No conditions.

A BRIEF HISTORY OF STEPHEN HAWKING

Let’s escape this science, says Hawking. Rising
from his chair, he cracks his long neck, rotates his
shoulders up and down, then he grabs his tennis
           racquet. The private

courts are grand. I came to his secret island
hoping to understand. He tries to be concise, but
can’t resist abstractions; he closes his eyes and
           curls into theories,

sighs into some formulae. Listen, this is
relativity implying it’s almost
really necessary. Whatever that means.
           Hawking laughs a lot,

starts his thoughts, half-finishes them. His team of
Junior Scientists jot things down, their notebook
pages filthy with scribbles and scratches, trying to
           fill the blank spaces

with their own half-baked ideas. Hawking wins the
match, straight sets. His serve is so fast and brutal,
he smashes ace after ace right past me, then
           calmly towels off. He

says he wants to conquer the world and shows me
plans, unrolls a map with an X in the middle. It’s
only math. It’s only equations. When the
           scientists bring us

trays of cold drinks, Hawking proposes a toast. To
all the ways the world might yet end. And then he
tilts his head and smiles. To movies where villains
           reveal the master plan.

ON READING 10 POEMS TO OPEN YOUR HEART,
I FIND MY OWN HEART OPENING

The first chamber’s a shop. Classical music
swells and slows to the thrum of my pulse.
There’s a counter, a cash register, a sign; Yes,
We’re Open! I turn on the lights, wait
for the customers to arrive.

There’s a skylight in the second chamber,
above which my skull curves, hollow
and huge as the moon, if the moon
tilts down like a bowl to cover the world.
Outside the big bay window, my lungs
rise and fall like thunderheads.

The third chamber; an abandoned street;
some people gather to burn me in effigy.

In the fourth chamber, the door to the fifth chamber.

Like you, I hear the terrible engine rising out of the dark.
Like you, I’m putting my weight against the door,
using my shoulder, holding it shut.

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