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this writing appears in the
Mark Fleury 2010 poetry book

In Your Heart,
the Apostrophe’s
Teardrops of God


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Mark Fleury poetry book
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Seeing
Strangers
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Pretending to Be Christ

Mark Fleury

Pretending to be Christ
By finding a trail from under

A pile of shores,

Masks, history lessons,
And bridges between friends,
I woke from my nap under

Green light that turned my skin
Blue as sky. Under water because

I was the Father of the ocean’s
Changing colors, I had to swim to
The rock at the top of my favorite

Face: the eastern sun.

In that place to rest,
Dry my senses and contain,
In the blinding heart,
My blood, nourished by being
Lit from breaking like

A car toward horror
Of flag, my shirt the size

Of a tent; I was a drunken
Me on that rock of ages,
My face melting at least

My teacher’s thoughts anyway,
In a tie of driveway tar.

She shook my key and wouldn’t let me
Get behind the wheel of my own
Liquid light in the final flow
Of rain clouds. The night the fluid

From the sun’s face filled the

Wings of my wallet with blood,
Your heart felt fine to me.
All where it should be.

The driveway in my light
Became my classroom:

A reeled-in fish, reflected
In the rising bubbles in
My glass, gilled what had broke.

Then my date with destiny -
Back seat kissing of the phantom’s
Thoughts with feeling - is what I mean
By liquid rock.

Heat of kiss, my teacher,
You who when Mary and Christ
Aren’t separate: as written on
A math teacher’s blackboard.

So after drinking an aquarium
Full of light, the bartender
From Atlantis left me high and dry.
I mean I was he, unmirrored.
You, my voice.

I’m also the trunk of a tree,
And whom I love, the branches,

Is another way of saying that,
While identities change, love only deepens.

I remember when I can’t find
The cliff at the end of my
Earliest memories, that my rage
Has no source. Younger than me

In terms of size of age,
The submarine in the sun
That yellowed the grass was,
Upon closer inspection, a star

At the top of an early
Morning staircase, worn by my
Favorite TV hero.

That’s what my reunion
With youth is like.
My house the color of blue sky,
And not even having to knock

To get to the nearest cloud.

Or running up against
Brute force, the brick wall

Of the first decision made
Against someone else’s
Sense of self, of me, to find

Betrayal, and thinking I’d
Found a way out of it,
What couldn’t be washed off.

Edge of pond policed
As though an archway.

A talk over coffee.

Train tracks out of me.
Both just getting onto
An infinity bus.

And I’d get broke
Under a tree, become the length
Of conversation as an

Entrance, my throat a shore

That’d go from pond to ocean,

Wall to love, betrayal to bridge,

Third eye to sight
Threaded together by one line
Of naked, mended shards.

River healed by emptying
War into Mary.



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