Ars Poetica

1 Minute Read Time

A man in a garage spraying down a red car with a hose. The walls are made of chipboard, with windows and a table with tools on it inside. The car's submodel reads "350 Z." — Photo by Francis Painchaud on Unsplash

For years I walked around 
feeling holy. Bright light 
descended to touch my face 
& bright light rose
from my face in answer. Birds 
communicated with me & omens

existed. When the last apple fell 
from the wintering apple tree
I knew what it meant
& I told everyone. & everyone 
believed me. Everyone
made soft noises

in the backs of their throats 
when they heard me talk 
about fallen apples. But then 
the bright light stopped 
descending: there
were wildfires out west

that obscured the sky, tornadoes 
touching down in Kentucky.
When the light came down, I was lucky 
if I was awake. I was lucky
if I glimpsed it in the rim
of a hubcap. So I made a religion

of washing cars, cleaning 
windows even in winter. 
How hard it was to remove 
the salt. How disappointing 
when I saw in them
my own dull reflection.

Patrick Kindig

is the author of the chapbook all the catholic gods (Seven Kitchens Press, 2019) and the microchapbook Dry Spell (Porkbelly Press, 2016); his poems have recently appeared in Colorado Review, Copper Nickel, Chattahoochee Review, Washington Square Review, and other journals. He teaches at Tarleton State University.

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