“For me, writing is a devotional exercise–a way of recognizing little things as big things; recognizing that which makes my life good.” ~Sam Bailey
Sam was raised in rural Pennsylvania. He holds a BA in English and religion from Oberlin College, and is currently a Master of Divinity candidate at the Harvard Divinity School. His poems have appeared in various literary magazines.
TO THE FAT ROCK The fat rock in the corner of my lawn has two little dents like sleep-squeezed eyes right in the middle of its belly. I am walking toward it like some humble movie-star, my left handing hiding like a pet mouse in my pocket and my chin tugged down. The dried leaves beneath me are brittle as Pringles. I hear them crunch. It’s windy. I’m almost back in the roaring fields of Cleveland, where my Toyota would get blown left and right as I struggled down the highway to the lake. I am two or three feet now in front of you, rock. Looking hard. Inspecting your tough gray wrinkles. Could you quit, please, acting like we both aren’t here? Like we both aren’t plopped in this neighborhood where the dirt’s cut up like brownies in a pan. Like we aren’t on this ground that they deemed Massachusetts and later Union Lane. Don’t think I’ll stop working my toe through the worn grass, or my tongue on the roof of this mouth. Or that I make up the miracles. Or that I’ll leave my forearms to the whims of my elbows. No–– I reach towards you and do so with faith. My hands are like a zookeeper’s touching an elephant’s skin. My palms on you made of the pink stuff of just-borns.
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