Sunday Afternoon – a poem by Charisse Stephens

Sunday Afternoon 


I walk into the thrift store 
looking for immortality. 

As always, I find it 
in pieces—				the books:

nooked and crammed, alien or Proustian 
or ringing tiny bells to mark memories 

of distant doors—something I’ve heard of, 
something I should know—something

worth knowing.  Speaking in titles
as the fluorescent light moves

me, wandering across every color of spine.
Shelved skeletons in their paper shrouds, 

offering my new
original hunger— 			to know: 

which is always to want more. 
That’s why I’m here, where I can collect

myself—past and future memories, 
a few dollars each at most—I know I can’t afford 

my whole self at anything like 
full price; these I can gather cheap and leave 

precious— 				postmortem: 
Pompeii-perfect.  

I’m here, Sunday after Sunday, because I know 
I will not live forever. Not in the way 

I was promised as a child.  
Instead, by this ritual, I find my mind

made manifest— 			re-incarnate: 
caro verbum.  

The soft parts and skins transmute 
into papers full of psalms, the meated bones 

into offerings. All this knowing 
to burn through, to breathe in, to breathe 

into.  Devouring and jealous, I end
only knowing it’s never enough 

and always
too much— 				but broken:

pieces small enough to hold 
in my hand, small enough to hand

to my children—			here, my loves:
these are pieces of me. 

These are pieces of the world 
worth loving:				Take, eat.

Charisse Stephens is a poet and teacher with an MA in English from the University of California – Berkeley. She has a deep fascination for science, religion, history, and the places they intersect. Her work has been published in literary journals including SLANT, Neologism, and Irreantum. She currently lives in Salt Lake City, Utah with her partner, two kids, and dog Polly.