go tell it on the mountain

Ethan Mershon

i don’t know what it means when a hawk

flies over my windshield as i’m driving

out of the valley of the shadow of suicide

into some blank Eden waiting

to be painted.

Thanksgiving Day and i am stopping

at a fast food restaurant for a burger

in a field next to the highway

after three months of rehab food and whatever

i picked up on the weekly trips to walmart.

the Sun is different somehow. more self-assured.

or more delusional.

somebody at rehab told me i’ve got soul.

i guessed they meant i was in pain

and it shows. i think about that, driving through

Autumn fields, brown and gold after the humbling harvest.

soul- like a tree planted by the river

that gives shade to the old man living out of his van

playing a guitar with a missing string.

i think i like having soul, even though it hurts.

now i get the hawk’s meaning.

if i pay attention, there will be songs.

and if nothing comes of it but songs

then i wasted my breath

telling the Sun why i need it to keep shining.