The Saint By the River Rolls Up His Sleeves

on a morning of no visible storks, only this
steady percolation of red fog….

Mouth full of angel, saint full of pine needle,
phantom full of coffee-steam,

who among us died to lend me these knees

on this mudbank
with the signal so low

every word must be stone:
rainstorm, stone, slaughter, stone,

mother, stone,
neuron, stone.

About the Author

John Bosworth is a senior at the University of Texas in Austin. He is the recipient of the 2018 Most Promising Young Poet Award from the Academy of American Poets, the 2018 Roy Crane Award for Outstanding Achievement in the Arts, and a two-time winner of the James F. Parker writing contests. He works as a poetry intern at Bat City Review.