Sunday Poem
Matt Phillips

Somewhere, there is a poem that feels just like America’s Sister Golden Hair. Imagine this is that poem. Good: you are getting yourself undressed & setting your sights beyond the troubled cliffs, you are as ugly as ever but now, with joy for it, & perhaps someday, like the old poet, you will come to cherish a sort of stubborn, resigned love for the castle that holds you, like the Achaeans when man-slaying Hector comes rushing at their beaked ships.

Imagine you are Hector. Good: no, never mind that; you are far too sullen and hardly loyal enough. Now, doesn’t that feel better? You are setting your sights on Monday, or if you can’t get the pillows fluffed in time, perhaps Thursday. On Thursday, the neighborhood boys will come again on their bikes, whizzing past your sidewalk where you sit in your lawn-chair, swift as missiles. They are talking about a girl who is beautiful yet cruel: what luck! The legend of Helen endures.

And they are beautiful, too, they just don’t know it. You excavate their foreheads. Saturday will be the last day for dreaming. Imagine you are Helen. Oh, for your entire body to be a poem, coming trippingly upon the tower-walks. You wish someone would see you. Well, finish your lemonade; go inside, walk to the mirror. You always wished it was full-length. Before you even realize, it will be Sunday again.