But the promise
of rebirth is a miscarriage
What
were you
expecting?
Flags atop monuments induce
labor
Huddled mothers indulge one
another, words covered in satin, prayers
for a sun to swaddle
broken and shuddering
futures
Recipes call for ginger, sage,
and I oblige because my belly is
fat
and weak and
a journal of vices
submitted, with
cover letter, to a raving,
demonic ocean
of futures
Need will not relent, I must
take
care to empty the fridge and Galaxy
of perishables before my
flight, must
consider a sudden airborne future, must
tranquilize myself
with statistics,
must interpret a
future as technicolor
collateral, must leave
dusty footprints and stamp out the
stench
of infinite possibility.
Leave a Reply