David Dixon

David Dixon is a physician, poet, and musician who lives and practices in the foothills of North Carolina. His poetry has appeared in Rock & Sling, The Northern Virginia Review, Connecticut River Review, FlyingSouth, Volney Road Review, and elsewhere. He is the author of The Scattering of Saints (Hermit Feathers Press - 2022).

Watercourse

How it rushes and spills,brims, leaks, floods
and drowns. Softensthe sleepless night,
battersour sanctuaries.
How it’s often not enough, then too much,
brought forth from rockand sky.
Never resisting, nor conforming,
constantly the Way of flowing where it desires
through crackedwould be containment;
shapeless, yet alsothe cup, the pool, the river.
It always finds the lowest of places
cohesive and essential,our common denominator.
Perhaps there is reason we are one-half water,
and consequence too; howwe’re 10,000 ways emptied,
still longing to be poured.

She

never kneels among the broken piecesnor walks through withered ruins.Takes no pause for memory nor lingerswithin a silence.
Look back, she’s told, and you become part of the landscape; like a dead sea,or a pillar of salt,
or maybe a statue of tears forever the wife of someone with no name of your own.Too clumsy and amateur, too helpless to leave even when tipped-offby the angels.
Instead she is professionalskilled with the dustpan and broom;seasoned in disposing of the remains,any shred of evidence or scrap pointing to the fact
there once was something whole.

Biscuit Day

You know the day. It’s the one after the day you barely ate a thing for lunchand certainly nothing memorable or worthy of a food journalafter 9 the evening before, plus you most definitely will run that extra mile,
for after all is it really cheating when there is another unexpected sacrificesomewhere along the way,
and can we not dismiss our transgressionsas insignificant,as something other than excess,when they are so measured, so even. Deferredfrom one day to the next.
There’s that sun,dimpled and fluffy in its blue oven sky. Warming and fat even.
Justified.
So that I see the day as good, and keeping straight beyond the turn for work,
drive true into this day.


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