Issue 5,  Poetry

time machine by A.H. Lewis

To go back to any place in time 
with such a machine would be 
nothing short of a miracle 
and yet I would still not believe in god. 
If I could choose, I would go back to a time 
before humanity bipedaled across 
the terrain of a planet we don’t recognize. 
Maybe to the dinosaurs, but not because 
of those movies. No, I would want to go back 
that far for the peace and quiet, 
the hum of nothingness, 
to see nature in her most exquisite form 
with her dewy trees and heavy air and open skies. 
To see the planet in its truest greens and blues 
and richest browns and muds and slates and rocks, 
to hear the sighs of the mountains and 
slip through the tongues of the rivers. 
I want to feel the insignificance of being human 
in a universe constantly changing, constantly awaiting 
the next blast of a meteor. Why waste your 
time machine to visit the familiar? Can a miracle wrap 
itself around seconds, years, millennia? 
Time is the god to which everyone refers, 
the one so vehemently feared and cursed 
and worshipped with whispers of steel. 
Remind me, then, Time, with this machine of yours—
show me how merciless you truly are.


A.H. Lewis is a 26-year-old poet from Pittsburgh, PA, with an English degree from Allegheny College and a Disney addiction cultivated since birth. Her first collection of poetry, The Smallness of Everything Else, is forthcoming from Dorrance Publishing in spring 2019, along with other pieces published in various publications and social media accounts. For Lewis, there is no weather too warm, no blanket too soft, and no bowl of gnocchi too big.

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