David Hornibrook
Motion & Eclipse
If not for the Supermoon blooming over Michigan
in the fall of that year the intoxicated man
would not have approached us passing by the theatre.
Blame it on the rain, for example, dripping from
awnings long after the storm was over. Particular
forces. Wing thrusts for example, propelling the goose
beyond reach of a fox. Cosmic dramas enacted on
small bodies, ours included – all physics and physical,
a dropped bottle splintering into shards upon striking
for example, pavement. The geese gather in the park
to prepare for long migration. We walk our six blocks
in the direction of a particular bench where we will
sit together and look at the moon. Cars pass
in both directions. We are not the only ones walking
on this street but we choose to decide the meaning
of our touch. Slivers of the visible universe reflect
everywhere in still puddles. Crisp air blows evenly
from left to right. Intent thrives in our warm
equations. The man was not intentional. He failed
at choosing though he was harmless, just drunk.
The early humans crossed a bridge made of land
to get to this place. Then the earth moved
and the world became new. Still, no one called it
a New World until it was already very old and then
only by ignorance, perhaps intentional. Eventually
the man wandered off muttering to himself. Leftover
rain left the ground shiny and a little slick. We fail
to consider that we are the ones flying through space.
By imperceptible movements an earth tide shifted
the sidewalk twelve inches closer to the sky.
It was late October. When you pulled me
close to your body it had nothing
to do with sexual love. The geese
were never metaphors for how to leave
behind. They were only ever birds
crossing in front of the moon.
David Hornibrook's work was selected for a Pushcart Prize and has appeared in PANK, The Baltimore Review, Five Quarterly, The Columbia Review, Flyway and elsewhere. He holds an MFA from the Helen Zell Writer's Program at the University of Michigan.
Return to January 2016 Edition
If not for the Supermoon blooming over Michigan
in the fall of that year the intoxicated man
would not have approached us passing by the theatre.
Blame it on the rain, for example, dripping from
awnings long after the storm was over. Particular
forces. Wing thrusts for example, propelling the goose
beyond reach of a fox. Cosmic dramas enacted on
small bodies, ours included – all physics and physical,
a dropped bottle splintering into shards upon striking
for example, pavement. The geese gather in the park
to prepare for long migration. We walk our six blocks
in the direction of a particular bench where we will
sit together and look at the moon. Cars pass
in both directions. We are not the only ones walking
on this street but we choose to decide the meaning
of our touch. Slivers of the visible universe reflect
everywhere in still puddles. Crisp air blows evenly
from left to right. Intent thrives in our warm
equations. The man was not intentional. He failed
at choosing though he was harmless, just drunk.
The early humans crossed a bridge made of land
to get to this place. Then the earth moved
and the world became new. Still, no one called it
a New World until it was already very old and then
only by ignorance, perhaps intentional. Eventually
the man wandered off muttering to himself. Leftover
rain left the ground shiny and a little slick. We fail
to consider that we are the ones flying through space.
By imperceptible movements an earth tide shifted
the sidewalk twelve inches closer to the sky.
It was late October. When you pulled me
close to your body it had nothing
to do with sexual love. The geese
were never metaphors for how to leave
behind. They were only ever birds
crossing in front of the moon.
David Hornibrook's work was selected for a Pushcart Prize and has appeared in PANK, The Baltimore Review, Five Quarterly, The Columbia Review, Flyway and elsewhere. He holds an MFA from the Helen Zell Writer's Program at the University of Michigan.
Return to January 2016 Edition