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There Is Only One World, This One

By S. J. Ghaus

for Scotty B

Nearby a spring lamb wobbles
like a song on its first feet, while
somewhere in the same field a lamb dies

in its mother’s womb. This season is all
one choir, the geese on the roof, the ticks
in the grass, the shadowy black

of sunflower seeds oversleeping
in my pocket. Out front two dogs
yowl you, you, and so I join, singing

I’ll fly away to my friend, whose unhoused
father just died, casualty of empire’s economy.
Life and death occur without recourse

in a world like this. We are shot through by grief,
throwing our songs in the gathering
wind. A birthing sheep cowers in the grass-

scattered fields. Sometimes I want us to horse
through the world like it’s on fire,
yelling and singing, crying and spitting

with a smoke-black bead in the corners
of our eyes — because what if we don’t? The sneezeweed
and coreopsis, cottontail and woodrat,

and what of our loved ones, this sodden
ground? Holy, holy hoot the dogs. Oh, glory.
There’s the keening of pines again,

dead fathers, friends, estrangements gathering
overhead. Along the fence two rat snakes
mate as the horse skits sideways,

beckoning the storm. I count to ten and steady
the head of a full-womb sheep as my love reaches
inside for the baby. It takes the whole of my muscle

to hold down the animal, just so she can face
a death conceived in her body. We sing
to her afterwards, soft and clover-like,

not at all like we’re galloping through a burning,
burning. There’s a horse in me nosing
the sheep at my feet. There’s a sheep in me crowing

for the dogs to take over, but the dogs
stay whistling, disobeying cruelty. How I wish
my friend’s father back, hallelujah by-and-by,

but the land clouds on. Next to the lamb’s
dead yellow, their mother pacing lamentations, I billow
a rhythm not wedded to patience. I give up my debts

to the animals who made me. Count:
one, two, three, four,
before lightning breaches the pasture’s breadth
and fire is consistent with rain.


 

AUTHOR'S NOTE: The title is taken from Susan Sontag’s journals: “the nightmare is that there are two worlds/the nightmare is that there is only one world, this one.”

 

 

Listen as S. J. Ghaus reads There Is Only One World, This One.
Added: Wednesday, September 18, 2024  /  Used with permission.
S. J. Ghaus

S. J. Ghaus is a Pakistani American writer, artist, and cultural worker for the people. They are a Tin House alum, VONA/Voices of Our Nations fellow, and recipient of the 2020 Vera Meyer Strube Prize from the Academy of American Poets. An award-winning teacher and long-time organizer, they co-founded the poetry and organizing series in solidarity with Palestine called In Water & Light. You can read their essays, comics, and poems at poets.org, Poetry Daily, Ecotone, Pleiades, and elsewhere. They hold an MFA from Indiana University.

Image Description: A brown femme with mid-length curly black hair and bangs stands in front of a letterpress. They’re smiling and tucking a strand of hair behind their ear, wearing a gray turtleneck under a tan sari blouse. Steel rulers, stamps, and several colorful letterpressed signs proclaiming “INTERDEPEND!”, “WE LOVE YOUS!” and “MAKE BEAUTIFUL SH!T TOGETHER!” hang in the background. 

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