The city last night made me think of my mother,
newly married, miserable. Cruelty surprised me:
a thick group of men doing something to one.
They didn’t run. The sounds stopped. Shift done.
Shouting is better. Sometimes it’s all they need.
This was work. My mother cried every morning.
The men next door were still beating their drum
and praying for us. I had thought they would only
do it for the extra hour so that no one was lost.
I am unsure what religion. I don’t recognise
the word for their god. I asked the wall
what happened. The city dilated, widening
with serenades to allies, sirens, a sore heel.
I can hear the distance. I worry for us all.
Wondering what it will look like tomorrow
with warm garbage-truck breath on my back.
Comments
capoeiragem | November 6, 2008 - 10:49
I read this yesterday and tried in vain to come up with something clever and constructive to say, but when all is said and done this is just great poetry.
'I am unsure what religion. I don't recognise
the word for their god...'
Haunting.
jennifer | November 9, 2008 - 00:54
'The city dilated, widening
with serenades to allies, sirens, a sore heel.'
and the staccato full-stops in the first stanza
are both
electrifying.
'Nuff said.