On History
1
His father’s boss was a Millerite—
assured of the imminent apocalypse—
which is how Peter and his parents
came to be among the crowd
that day on Brighton Hill
waiting to be lifted to God
and into the clarity of story.
They stayed all afternoon,
small flights of birds
passing overhead. Mr. Jackson
kept saying soon, but by nightfall
the oat cakes and lemonade
were gone, and hunger
had become a weight
that could no longer be ignored.
This was the afterlife
they were lifted into: Peter’s father
left the factory for another job,
they moved across the river.
The narrow moment of that day
kept swinging like a pendulum—
2
Last week, a violent mob
of thousands stormed the Capitol.
They wore sweatpants and flags,
puffer coats and tactical gear.
If I ignore the details of their chants
and the silliness of their face paint,
they become a historical form.
That policeman on the television
being crushed in a doorway
over and over is trapped inside
of history. If you feel nothing
for him, then you are inhuman.
Yet all of us were pushing
from one side or the other.
3
Peter—that boy I read about
in a book on the history of Cincinnati—
came to see October 22, 1844,
as proof of his parents’ incurable
weakness. They, meanwhile,
believed the rest of their lives
to be an enduring humiliation—
how could they have been so foolish?
And yet: many others
made of the experience a church.
