Poetry by Todd Davis

Letter to My Mother, Sixteen Years after the Fact

I thought it was high time
to tell you what I did
at summer camp.

Don't worry,
it doesn't involve girls
in bathing suits at the beach,
long fingers pulling elastic
down around the soft flesh
of their bottoms, contrast
of white on brown.
Or the unsure dreams of sex
that I woke from with regret
and longing, embarrassed
by the tautness of my skin,
the throbbing that sent me
to the bathroom stalls.

It doesn't concern boys
driving fast in cars
whose engines ached for speed.
Flat road stretching on
through cornfields into the night,
toward the faint glow
of some other Indiana town
where we could buy cheap beer,
pretend that the suds
absolved us of our youth,
make like men back to Warsaw:
Head lamps spreading light,
fog slipping from riverbeds
in search of misfortune.

What I did was walk through the dark
to Center Lake where the concrete pier
cuts through the water, clapping of waves
sounding against its sides, and there I climbed
the ladder to the diving board that hung
fifteen feet above the black body
of night, curtain of water covering
this hollow place in the earth.
I looked down, remembering your stories
of teenagers who dove into unknown waters,
their lives ended tragically or spent in wheelchairs.
Then I pitched myself head first, arms splayed
as I'd been taught at the YMCA,
pushed my fingers forward at dive's end,
waited for water to swallow me.

(Click here for an interpretation of this poem by Karis Munley.)
(Click here for an imitation of this poem.)


Prayer Requests at a Mennonite Church

Pray for the Smucker family. Their son Nathaniel's coat and shirt were
caught in the gears while grinding grain. Nothing would give, so now
he is gone. We made his clothes too well. Perhaps this is our sin.

Pray for the Birky family. Their son Jacob fell to his death in the
granary. He was covered in corn before they could stop the pouring--
chest crushed by the weight, seed spilling from his mouth. We hope
something will grow from this, besides our grief.

Pray for the Hartzler family. Their youngest has left the churchand no
longer believes that Christ died for her sins. She buys clothes at the
mall. Tongue pierced, nose as well. Her shirt shows her belly where a
ring of gold sprouts. We pray she will remember that her Lord's side
was pierced, that His crown held no gold, only the dried blood of His
brow.

Pray for the Miller family. Last week their daughter, who lives in
Kalona, lost her baby in birth. Child only half-formed: head turned the
wrong way; heart laid on the outside of her chest; one leg little more
than an afterthought. Lord, help them know that life may come again,
that we are all made whole in heaven.

Pray for the Stutzman family. Their son fights in the war. We call him
back to the Prince of Peace, to our Savior who knelt to gather the
slave's ear, brushed the dirt away, lifted it to the side of his flushed face.
May we levae no scars. May we ask no blessing for the killing done in
His name.



All poems posted with permission from the author.
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