Dane Cervine

Mad to Live

When my children began to tattoo their skin, / even modest images scared me. / I winced at each new embellishment, / wishing them innocence, not scars.

My Father’s Lesson

I picture him standing in the church superintendent’s office, / the grim man threatening to fire my father from his pastorship / in the small town of Live Oak if he continued to attend / the interdenominational prayer group that spoke in tongues.

Wild Weeds

We were sweeping his father’s driveway, / contemplating whether kissing a guy / would be anything like kissing a girl.

How Therapists Dance

Washington, D.C., after a conference: / we head into the urban night / led by the jive-talking white ghetto boy / raised in black foster homes, / bent on showing us the town.

Enlightenment Is A Bitch

At first it isn’t so bad — a taste of ecstasy, / the world covered in honey. Even snails / scrawl the names of buddhas with their silvery trails.

Love At The Gun Runner

At the edge of town in Merced, California, sits a pale building whose sign says, “The Gun Runner.” A shooting range and retail outlet for rifles, pistols, and any kind of bullet you might need, it is owned and operated by Sandy, a friend of my family’s and the only true psychic I know. Her husband, Gary, whom I’ve never met, helps her run the place. I haven’t seen Sandy for years, not since my father died and she came to the funeral to tell my mother, my siblings, and me what Dad wanted her to communicate: that he had passed over and was filled with love for us and awe at life’s immensity and regret over whatever hurt his depression might have caused everyone. We trusted Sandy and always welcomed her glimpses into the “other side.”

The Jeweled Net Of Indra

Engine