Michael Mark

Dammit, Santiago!

Santiago,
every damp morning, I get on my knees
and check under my bed for new shoes—
for the old holes to be mended, at least.
Always the holes are wider, the leaf-thin
soles, thinner. Damn you, Santiago!
Why do you hide the yellow arrows behind
grapevines? Once again, the fountain is dry—
where is your hospitable spirit? Can’t you shorten
the kilometer? Why do you place acorns to crack
my hips when I slip in the rain (why make it rain
five days straight?) Why give me skin that sears—
why the false plateaus? The promise of rest
always leads to another and another higher
climb. Why do you make me strong enough
to barely survive? Why put the Cathedral there,
when you can bring it here? Santiago, I do not walk
for you anymore. Why do you hate my feet?     

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Michael Mark is the author of Visiting Her in Queens is More Enlightening than a Month in a Monastery in Tibet, which won the 2022 Rattle Chapbook Prize. His recent poems appear in Best American Poetry blog, Copper Nickel, Ploughshares, Poetry Northwest, Sixth Finch, The Southern Review, The Sun and 32 Poems. michaeljmark.com