The worst of the artificial tempest

I.

Hitting that main artery,

only just,

the shot still matters-- 

incomplete and harsh and cold. 

A small morsel 

among the rubble 

with ringing in her ears

knows not where

her dog is,

so she calls out

hoping someone can hear her.

II.

The body dies gradually--

nerves tingling, as if waking up--

but communication is complete.

Arteries jam, then close,

but she can still pull herself 

up and out 

of the shell

as cold gives way to heat, then fire--

a burst of activity and noise

as the ringing stops 

and the sirens begin.

III.

She is the tiniest thing,

the most fragile package,

the most scared little girl

with lungs rattling

and eyes burning.

Her city, her surrogate, 

could no longer

hold her and patiently answer 

her many questions.

So, she waited,

between crying out

a name she knew.

She waited for a friend

Estate Matters

Grief is love and
love is grief and
this house held you
until you grew
into
your grief--
and when
you are quiet,
you can hear
the floors
breathing--
with the womb
at the center,
wide and much too warm.
Love is grief and
it calluses over and
you try to just

let it
but you can't.
This house held you
until you
reluctantly
grew up and out,
arms outstretched
and aching.

Can you ever forgive me?

A Miscalculation

God's mouth gulps,
breathes into a burner phone:
Maybe this spell
will ignite the torch,
the fire illuminating the scene
of the accident,
and maybe they will be moved.
Maybe they will act with more
than the occasional pail,
the occasional dropperful
of tears.
Maybe they will witness
that light reflecting in
a neighbor's scared black eyes
and see themselves, a mirror
suggesting more than sympathy.
The sharp crackle
on the other end of the line
gave away
the listener's position.
"Even after all this time,"
the listener responded,
"your trust in them
is stronger than their love."

Umbilical

i have no excuse
lying on my back,
an ache behind each eye,
sand coating my throat.

i have no excuse
for this recurring dream
in which i am covered
gently
by the dirt,
making the mistake

of opening my mouth.

i remember you tried
to burn your prints away
but the groves, the loops
healed back, revealing
there's no such thing
as starting over

just again,
and a third time,
as if this were practice,
as if life were practice.

why not be here now
before we cough up
the mud of the past?

if we go back

long before there were knives, there were teeth
to shred through flesh and crunch through bone

if we go back to "olden times,"
you have to put your weapons away

use what god gave you to impress survive

there is no cutting room floor
everything goes live

part with the club by the entrance
when you are done using it for the day

scrape the mud from your feet

await a return
to the same pattern of violence