She woke upon
behind quarantine lines of reduced longetivity.
Whole sections of the city had slid from their foundations, rising smoke where windows were.
Neighborhoods once home to her upturned in a warrantless search for subservience, enforced with turrets between the shanty towns still intact.
The stench of human passage rotates
around the axles of buses pushed onto
and coupled with
she wished she
would have died when
the rockets hit.
But she climbed to
spit the blood from
her cheeks and vowed
to reach a
place this could not
I speak no ills of the dead but hope I’ll be the exception, for I am a faultline and do as earthquakes will,
tectonic skillsets that would easily go to waste
magnitudes of makeshift cleaves
in the earth
running under your church
Dare you speak ills of the dead,
and if not, the truth shall
rear its head anyway.
Not all God’s creatures are
everyone is this house is a poet,
family disgrace or matriarch.
you can hear dishes being done in long-held words,
see dust dance along the
rafters you used to sit and purse
there’s prose from the living room,
where Dad used to fall asleep every
a long week around the
there’s music in the shortfalls,
in how he never called back after leaving;
in the walls and ceilings
that lack proper insulation in winter.
there’s a symphony in splintered faith,
beauty in unknowns.
a story behind those broken bones,
but a better one in
how you got back up and learned to
love your legs again.
there are stanzas in the tropes
that’ve kept us all together,
weaving rhyme with passages in time,
creating something that will likely
alive if slightly left off-center
playing back creations we would have never
Rivers of blood, of water.
Beating against rocks
From my veins, from my tongue,
along each crack in the floor.
Flow, little river.