Rogue
angels chiffon my nights, twelve arms flailing,
Those long
whispers of limbs that curl a pale blood around my throat.
They are
maddened by my breath, as constant as God’s bare foot.
I saw their
burning flesh drop and felt the slow vibration of death,
A hum-drone
known to the ages.
Jet fuel
streamed under the lime-stripe of a firecoat, poof!
Then I ate
them, I swallowed their stardust exploding on glass,
One hundred
freight trains crashing.
Come
tonight, I’ll cream your skin and feed you cowfoot and beans.
There
will be a love song, then you could find my keys and my checkbook and maybe
In my room
everything would feel new, like a red birth or a
Muscled and
panting fish gill, or just green grass that serves as a bed
For
dragonflies.
If not,
we'll talk about it when I get there.
--Karen D. Rickenbach
(A World Trade Center survivor 56th floor, North Tower)
This poem won the Donald G. Whiteside Poetry Award, May 2002 and is posted here with permission from the author.
Recent Comments