Wild Horses on the Outskirts of Memphis
by Randy Smith
Last night I dreamed Jesus returned.
He was supposed to plant his bare feet on two rocky mountains
somewhere in the Middle East,
burning the Hell out of whatever
scrub grows in such desert places, casting his wanton, piercing
glance to and fro,
to and fro, while lightning
sharp as razor blades rent the sky and zealous heavenly hosts
tracked down all the true
believers at home whipping meringue
for pie or shopping at Walmart for salty hams, candles, ammo,
and canned beans—
all those good people sporting
a hard-on for eternal life and finally being proved right
about the fine points,
even the broad strokes,
of politics, theology, and basic engine repair. But Jesus
showed up thin and stricken
with a herd of wild ponies
on a high, dusty plain out West. He asked directions to Memphis
and said he wanted to hear the Blues
again—the fierce, declamatory
vocal strokes, the syncopated drums beating out danceable rhythms,
the Howlin' Wolf, the jug-blown
bass. He looked hungry and tired,
wind-chapped, road-worn, and he still had a chipped tooth
from all his wasting shivers
on the cross in the dark
when his side was pierced and his pressure dropped and he hankered
for nothing more than a cold drink,
a paradox, like men do
when they exit a gun fight, lose blood, and finally see
their whole lives
flash before their eyes. He said
if he could just hear the Blues and get a cold drink, he would
livery the ponies at a good stable
on the outskirts of Memphis
where they could whinny, snort, and bray to all the bright, dying stars
stamped like broken clocks in the night sky.
About the Author
Randy Smith directs the BFA Program in Creative Writing at Belhaven University in Jackson, MS. Previously he has published poetry in Ruminate, Tupelo Quarterly, and Yemassee. In 2018, two of his poems were finalists for the Tupelo Quarterly Open Poetry Prize judged by Denise Duhamel.