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      October 24, 2016Almost HolyR.G. Evans

      My niece is addicting
      mice to cocaine.
       
      The cause is science,
      the university is Temple
       
      so it’s almost holy.
      Poor little buggers.
       
      Their tickers get to ticking
      and pretty soon they dream
       
      that they are rats,
      that they can fly,
       
      that they are rats
      with wings, pigeons
       
      soaring over mouse and rat,
      the god of mice,
       
      of rats, of birds. Until morning 
      when they’ll believe
       
      that they are dead.
      Then the true god comes
       
      in a cloud-like lab coat,
      the resurrection and the life.
       
      I used to dream 
      I was a mouse,
       
      but I am only a flea
      upon a mouse’s back.
       
      But sometimes … sometimes
      the blood’s so sweet
       
      I feel I’m the uncle of light riding
      bareback and holy through the temple.

      from #53 - Fall 2016

      R.G. Evans

      “One of the first questions I ask my creative writing students at the university where I serve as adjunct is, ‘What is your favorite poem?’ I get a lot of ‘The Raven’ or ‘Where the Sidewalk Ends.’ Some try to describe Frost’s ‘The Road Not Taken,’ although they usually can’t identify Frost or the title. I don’t mention this as a criticism of my students, most of whom are clever, adaptive writers who delight me with their work throughout the semester. I mention it as an indictment of an educational system that has gone mad pursuing standards and standardized testing while excluding the rich history of poetry available to everyone. At a time when we need poetry more than ever before, it’s my privilege to be able to introduce students to poetry and watch what happens behind their eyes.”

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