Three Poems//Theo Langdale

I Saw God at the Mission Viejo Mall and He Was $4.99 + Tax

say there was no god,
and i brought you to my hometown
one summer without fearing for my life,
or your life. you know how it is.
say that god is just the thing
i hold to my chest when you’re
not around past 9 o’clock or
here at all, close enough for me to say
this is the street i grew up on,
this is the tree i carved my initials
into when i was not who i am today,
this is my body, please hold it softly
the way i was never held here before.
say that god flies overhead at sunset
every night with the crows, 6:30 sharp,
like clockwork. like the sound of
bb-gunshots and newly broken wings,
like the way i never said i love you here
and meant it, or wasn’t afraid,
crows flying south to roost each night
like a bad omen becoming routine.
say we’ll leave god on the coat rack,
just this once, say we’ll have love and
money and i’ll see you every morning
over a bowl of cap’n crunch
and the crows can fly by the hundreds
without so much as a sound.
it’s warm here, always warm, and god
how i miss your face. i’ve been so good,
god i’m so good at waiting patiently
for my men and my miracles
and my microwave chicken fried rice.
say there was a god, once,
sitting at the dinner table and
refusing to eat his green beans.
say i could bring you home to meet
my mother and she’d say stay a while,
showing you pictures of when i was
young and embarrassing and still
not who i am today, but still me.
say you’ll stay the night and we can
find god in all the places i’ve
kissed you in public, unafraid/
say the crows come home early one day,
say they never come home at all.

In Loving Memory of the Living Ghost at Linda Lane

i’ll be 19 this time tomorrow &
i’ve gotten considerably hairier
since you saw me last year/
i’m not sure how to say this but
i dream of you often, mom,
heading north to a town that
won’t make your hair stand
on end when the wind rattles
the stucco walls you painted
yellow for the third time this
year to brighten things up.

this poem isn’t about you, mom,
it’s about the sting of salt & sunlight,
& the way all my friendships are
a lot more like drowning than not.
i wish i knew what to say to make
you love god a little less than me,
i wish you’d meet my lover & tell
stories from when i was small &
much braver than i am now,
say have some more cake, baby,
read me your poems about the
blue agave in our back garden,
and oh how the dog has missed you.

this year i will treat myself softly,
take myself by the hand and say
i’ll pack your lunch full of things
you love to eat & let you sleep a
little while longer. i will kiss the
raging sea until it is placated,
then dive in headfirst without a
second thought.

Dream in Which There Are Better Places to Nest Than San Juan Capistrano

in this dream i see my sister & she pretends not to know me. the dog doesn’t run like she used to & her muzzle is now more white than black. more lip than teeth. more missing than empty. in this dream there is something to lose & i lose it all. they rebuild the chapel roof a second time, fix the stoplight on felipe road. the jojo’s pizza they turned into a bank of america turns again into something else, and this time i’m not there to see it. since i left it’s been nothing but rain. i imagine tijeras creek swollen with it, bursting at the banks. the swallows are gone by now, headed for argentina before august gets the chance to jump from the bridge over i-5, like i thought about doing just once or twice. my friend’s baby brother is old enough to drive now. the dog alive more years without me than with. the cul-de-sac with my handprint is paved over & i’m not there to do anything about it. no teachers from my old school still teach there & the dog wouldn’t even come if i called. there is nothing in this town worth coming back for & i still can’t seem to wash the hot wet asphalt from my palms. the swallows come back in springtime, fewer each year. they say the city just isn’t built for it anymore. in this dream my sister looks me in the eye & the dog kicks in her sleep, at nothing.

Theo Langdale (he/him) is an American-British poet originally hailing from Southern California. He strives to connect the metaphysical with a tangible sense of place with an emphasis on queerness, religion, and childhood. His work is featured in Issue 12 of SCAB Magazine, and his chapbook “How Many Angels Weep” is available on Etsy.