flame

 

 

she’s a self-igniting moth

has been since fire was invented

gone up in flames 

only slower

than orange-robed men

lit a crowded town square

faster than a slow succession

 

she’s the open-hearted wrath

has been since no wars have ended

drowned by the noise

only louder

when frenzied birds laugh

under lamp post despair

louder than a bishop’s blessing 

 

she’s the best of sweet relief

has been since a rogue placenta

flooded with grief

sailing under

where embryos flew

across deserts mid-air

destined for the deepest cave-in

 

she’s the cover under dark

has been since a fresh reminder

pigeon-holed note

on a window

where harmed mothers clucked

over eggs that will never be raised.

 

nyc 7.14.23