THE POINT. by Joseph V. Milford

Once there was an obelisk.

Men desired to climb it.

It was sharp on top.

No place to perch.

Men tried to climb and sit on it

For centuries and bled.

This was called war.

Men climbed it and

Jumped from its peak

Counting the seconds as they fell,

And this was called science.

Some who sat at the bottom

Convinced other men to climb it;

That was religion.

The first poets

Drank the blood dripping

From the obelisk and made a tongue.

Then the obelisk

Was sideways:

A compass rose.

This obelisk

Made language;

It is only fitting

That we write

And bleed

Around it,

Staring agog, wondering

How to make

A better model.

Joseph V. Milford is the author of the poetry collections CRACKED ALTIMETER (BlazeVox Press) and TATTERED SCROLLS AND POSTULATES, VOL I. (Backlash Press). He is an English professor and Creative Writing instructor living south of Atlanta, Georgia. He also edits the online poetry thread, RASPUTIN, A POETRY THREAD.