Christopher Prewitt




Cowboy Church

After I came out of the coma,
it was explained to me that
I had (repeatedly) tied

cherry stems with my tongue.
Reporters in attendance
of my waking took pictures,

and a few shook my hand.
My girlfriend, who believes mountain lions
sleep on her couch when she’s not

home (or she did prior to my
leave of absence from the world
of the willingly asleep

or awake), was clearly fishing
in her little handbag for mace.
“Who fed him cherries? He’s

allergic to cherries.” The doctor
rebuked her. “No one fed him
cherries. We simply brought him

stems to demonstrate his talent.”
My bed sheets were stained
with moth wings. It looked like sleet

was coming down on the hospital
from my window. My girlfriend’s
fake eyelashes were detaching.

I felt incredible guilt for creating wonder
unsolicited despite the apparent
danger. I squeezed my girlfriend’s

hand. “You have seen the true
me. You have seen how in this
dirty dishwater colored brain

there are mother birds flying
to the wrong nests, feeding their babies
lemon seeds and fire. For my part

I am so sorry, and I love you.”
With that my head dislodged
and floated over my bed.

Looking down at my body,
I couldn’t recall when I had been



Christopher Prewitt‘s collection of poems, Paradise Hammer, won the 2018 James Tate Poetry Prize (SurVision Books, Dublin).

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