About this poet

David Welch is the author of Everyone Who Is Dead (Spork Press, 2018) and It Is Such a Good Thing to Be in Love with You (GreenTower Press, 2015). He lives in Chicago.

Reservoirs

The apple was not an apple when the rains came
The grave spurned the groundskeeper’s shovel when the rains came

No sacrament    no scripture        There were no reservoirs
save an ark beneath the steeple when the rains came

First the river wouldn’t fill             Then the valley’s hills
rose like the back of a camel when the rains came

The piano pursed its mouth of strings      The tenor kissed
his weathered hymnal when the rains came

There was no weathered landscape           there were neither
the hanging gardens nor Babel when the rains came

Lying on his back            the shepherd fanned his arms and legs
No one told him he couldn’t impress an angel when the rains came

our glosses / wanting in this world    Can you remember?
My name in Hebrew means Beloved or      blissful when the rains came

Copyright © 2017 by David Welch. “Reservoirs” originally appeared in The Cincinnati Review. Used with permission of the author.

 

Copyright © 2017 by David Welch. “Reservoirs” originally appeared in The Cincinnati Review. Used with permission of the author.

 

David Welch

David Welch is the author of Everyone Who Is Dead (Spork Press, 2018) and It Is Such a Good Thing to Be in Love with You (GreenTower Press, 2015). He lives in Chicago.

by this poet

poem

                              —Heather Christle

You meet someone and inside of them
you know there swells
a small country brimming
with steel and beasts of labor.
You love the country
and so you fear it.
Its flora fascinates you.
You wish to visit, though
you worry you

poem

The new mystery arrived at midnight
and so the boy swished it like wine between his teeth.
I feel now like I have a purpose, the boy said,
and his audience acknowledged that they understood
and began to cheer as if watching a rabbit untangle itself
from a poorly set trap. Dawn came and the

poem

The audience saw the boy in the distance

discussing what they did not know,

as if entering into the boat at his feet

might take him somewhere soft, a ladle

of milk cooling into an empty glass,

a cloth carrying lakewater off of an oar

to be wrung back into the dark

body of