Monday, February 27, 2017

The School

The School

Tired of being a student? Start a school.
Carve a path. Woo acolytes with honey.
Tell them you will teach them all about
beauty and strangeness. Write for thirty
years. Snare an angel. Nail its wings to
a barn door. A river is a correspondence
course. All my masters are dead. Throw
away the manuals. Stoke the mysteries.
I will build a new school on the praries.
A parcel of land with cattle and buffalo.
Some mountains in the background. We
will write in the mornings, sing praises   
while holding hands, strolling the green
wheat, in the afternoons. People from
a neighbouring school, one built beyond
the low foothills, will stop by wanting
to share stories. How nice it would be
to accept their offers of friendship! But
the school needs protecting in its infancy. 
We tell the strangers to wait for us down
by the creek, the large oak tree, while
we grab ivory-handled knives. We do what
must be done, then bathe in the waters,
until our hands are clean, evening tamed,
the sun crimson as the blood we shed.

By Chris Banks

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