SurVision Magazine / Tate Lewis-Carroll

On Contemplating the Origins of Hell

At which point I ricocheted outside of language.

At which point the oceans rose completely
and not a drop was left to spare.

At which point God became an unquenchable thirst.

At which point sweat became holy.

At which point the book of Revelations was mostly fulfilled—
except Jesus was so overly enthralled with rereading Tranströmer
he missed the trumpeting war party and was left
home alone with paint cans and a bb-gun.

At which point the aliens from Signs returned
with a vengeance and black leather dusters.

At which point River Phoenix and Awkwafina
led Seal Team Six into the underworld on a mission
to dam the River Styx.

At which point, stumbling upon the untouched estuary,
the task force threw down their bodies and wept.

At which point the salinity of their tears destabilized
the water's fragile pH. levels
and all the riverside sedges collapsed.

At which point the low growls and coos haunting the timber
began to harmonize in a devil's triad
with unresolved sevenths and ninths circling above
and below.

At which point Dante accepted a Critics Choice Award
with a speech that began, Told you so.

At which point war bonds had never been more valuable,
nor America so wealthy.

At which point will you abandon your faith?

At which point every chain will unravel into ribbons.

At which point the hands on the clocks will loosen their fists.

At which point humble bees will inherit the kingdom of locusts.

At which point language will just ricochet away.

Dream

I wake in the bathroom to find
my father crying into the sink.
He whips around at the commotion,
but he has the face of an elephant,

then a cherry pie,
then no face at all—a stranger
getting stranger by the second.
I don't understand his muffled gibberish,

but I do recognize his sudden hand gestures.
I hurry to leave, but the door
opens into an Irish trainyard,
then onto the Chilean coastline,

then into an abandoned garden. I leap
forward and slide beneath an apple tree
that's hacking and wheezing. I look back
to find a dollhouse, all the rooms

constricting. And in the bathroom,
the shattering mirror before me holds
shards of an unfamiliar face—
my inheritance.

Tate Lewis-Carroll is from rural El Paso, Illinois; the author of What's Left (Finishing Line Press, 2023), Guests of Sunlight (forthcoming from Ghost City), and Blind to the Prairie (forthcoming from Bottlecap Press).

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An international online magazine that publishes Surrealist poetry in English. Issue Fifteen TATE LEWIS-CARROLL On Contemplating the Origins of Hell At which point I ricocheted outside of language. At which point the oceans rose completely and not a drop was left to spare. At which point God became an unquenchable thirst. At which point sweat became holy. At which point the book of Revelations was mostly fulfilled— except Jesus was so overly enthralled with rereading Tranströmer he missed the trumpeting war party and was left home alone with paint cans and a bb-gun. At which point the aliens from Signs returned with a vengeance and black leather dusters. At which point River Phoenix and Awkwafina led Seal Team Six into the underworld on a mission to dam the River Styx. At which point, stumbling upon the untouched estuary, the task force threw down their bodies and wept. At which point the salinity of their tears destabilized the water's fragile pH. levels and all the riverside sedges collapsed. At which point the low growls and coos haunting the timber began to harmonize in a devil's triad with unresolved sevenths and ninths circling above and below. At which point Dante accepted a Critics Choice Award with a speech that began, Told you so. At which point war bonds had never been more valuable, nor America so wealthy. At which point will you abandon your faith? At which point every chain will unravel into ribbons. At which point the hands on the clocks will loosen their fists. At which point humble bees will inherit the kingdom of locusts. At which point language will just ricochet away. Dream I wake in the bathroom to find my father crying into the sink. He whips around at the commotion, but he has the face of an elephant, then a cherry pie, then no face at all—a stranger getting stranger by the second. I don't understand his muffled gibberish, but I do recognize his sudden hand gestures. I hurry to leave, but the door opens into an Irish trainyard, then onto the Chilean coastline, then into an abandoned garden. I leap forward and slide beneath an apple tree that's hacking and wheezing. I look back to find a dollhouse, all the rooms constricting. And in the bathroom, the shattering mirror before me holds shards of an unfamiliar face— my inheritance. Tate Lewis-Carroll is from rural El Paso, Illinois; the author of What's Left (Finishing Line Press, 2023), Guests of Sunlight (forthcoming from Ghost City), and Blind to the Prairie (forthcoming from Bottlecap Press).
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