Don’t let the
rest of us
become white crosses
decorating your lawn.
Our bodies are not meant to stay
whole—
we are steeple-top weathervane,
attune to what’s becoming.
We are gaze in the eye of
some Lord
[call her Hurricane]
We are immune to fright,
even on a night like this, tonight.
I dare you to Name us Dead.
I dare you to christen us Erased.
Our day lives beyond the horizon;
what’s the state of your sun now?
Comments