Days: Richard Turnbull

Richard Turnbull

He was brought up in rural Utah but thought
it didn’t matter. Drawing was spirit
answering spirit, and spirit was everywhere.
That woman in the train reading the New Yorker
stared down a very deep well
—she was the well—after Jesus had left her.
The trick last night ran into
his body like Samuel to the door,
repeating “Speak, Lord.” But when he tried
to sketch himself—defeated
Moroni wandering among caves, the song
making its way up Mary’s throat, Ammon heaving
the stack of severed arms to his king—
the drawings came off
like gloves,
showing his mink paws.

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