A Poem by Bruce Bond

by Mark Bibbins, Editor

Geppetto in Hell

Not the voices of the dead
wood I carved into a child.

No lie or license of the boy,
my son, who was not my son,

I know, though I talked to him
as blocks of wood talk to me

about their struggles and I listen.
Sometimes you find yourself

in hell, well, just because.
You, the puppet of your story.

I should know, stranded
in the belly of the big fish.

Last night I dreamt a man died
on a cross and put the wood

to sleep where, like blood, it blossomed.
It played its part. A fallen thing

that leveraged a better life.
Yes, I loved a wooden boy

who was, like me, a fool for toys.
I made him shoes. I gave him

the sweat of my hammer because,
alive together, we were alone.

Who is to say he is not out there,
approaching as life once did.

This broken boat is going nowhere.
This oar however. It asks me,

are we real yet, you and I.
This blade, this handle, this time to carve.

Have we crossed the dreamless part.

Tell me, faith turned true and so

no longer. Tell me, still black air
of day that makes the cricket sing.

Bruce Bond is the author of fourteen books including five forthcoming: Immanent Distance: Poetry and the Metaphysics of the Near at Hand (University of Michigan Press), For the Lost Cathedral (LSU Press), Black Anthem (Tampa Review Prize, University of Tampa Press), Sacrum (Four Way Books), and The Other Sky (Etruscan Press). Presently, he is Regents Professor at University of North Texas.