“Naegleria Fowleri” by Christopher Phelps
Is the name of a freshwater amoeba
that will, when you swim, if it can,
enter through your nose
and within days have eaten
enough of your brain
for you to die.
I hesitate to understand
what we are to make of this
invisible, well-adapted danger
besides denial, which
would like to look back out,
lashed in nostalgia,
that fog of making
peace with forgetfulness.
Eden, for instance,
a word that still stands
for a well-watered place,
named at the dawn
of writing wrongs,
as a fertile crescent
dried up fast as any spirit—
any ghost departed—
faith deserted
right before our almond eyes.
Christopher Phelps lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico, where he tutors himself and others in math and related mysteries. Queer and neurodivergent, this twainbow underwrites his attempts at creative solvency and steadfascination. His poems have appeared in journals including Beloit Poetry Journal, The Nation, Poetry Magazine, Zoeglossia, and most recently in Jelly Bucket and Does It Have Pockets. Find him in the lost-and-found at www.christopher-phelps.com.