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Going Under
It’s like buying a new car. You sit in a nice office
and a nice woman has you sign papers
and for just that moment you’re very special.
Everyone is very quiet. Then you go in.
It’s like flying, the unbelievable moment
when you’re actually taking off and there’s no turning
back and you realize that you just have to trust
the pilot and let go even though a part of you is still
trying to fly the plane yourself, going through
some ghostly, imagined checklist. But you’re in the air.
It’s like being ordained. There’s all ceremony:
people in white gowns, patterns of light going by,
things you have to do with your body, positions
you have to get in. Then you are transformed for a while.
One minute you are a person and the next just a body
they are flipping over onto a table, arms flapping.
Then a person again, coming to, dazed and grateful.
Such tenderness, for a while.
This Was the World
In the seventies everyone drove a 56 Chevy.
In the seventies, everyone ran the 100 in 10.3.
Girls had long, smooth legs but somehow
you never once thought where they went.
The only milk was Darigold. The only books
in the library were books. When you walked
into a cafeteria all you had to do was be there:
plates clattered, steam rose from the macaroni.
People were grainier, but real. Spaces weren’t
as crowded then, so everyone could really occupy
the air they were in. Evenings you sat by the river
and thought your long, slow thoughts. The sun set
through cottonwoods. This was the way things were.
This was the world. You had no idea it was dying.
Chris Anderson is a professor at Oregon State University and also a Catholic Deacon.
He has published a number of books, including a book of poems, My Problem with the Truth,
as well as poems in many journals.
Email: Chris Anderson
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