Friday, June 13, 2008

Grounded by JkD

After Small Variation by Miranda

Beached angel, wing-split wrung round Mediterranean

balconies, spinning Flamenco pink as thighs, a dress or

vision—my sister’s? Stretched space between

her shoulder blades, stubble-stumps, a scrapped message:

we’re in the mood for faith. Alms pressed to arms, to

what revelations? The dangerous need to go home.

Now her wings fold, she has no seeds incanting

constant motion. This luminous filled space betwixt strangers'

hips, elbows. Then to kneel, a keel evened to stay with

vehicles to assume futures post-2012 Mayan calendars.

Plead with a green strip, sign from a jungle. Epochs’

derailed demise, thwarted, accosted we draw straws

and signals, speak in tongues, say be here! keep quiet!

go forth! Flight patterns’ tired pride. Trials she

can’t counter to count upon this book, the good red

throat raised in glass gasps, limping, the tattered

wing’s emargination, to drag us forth as a dead limb

against dust. She is just the sort of hissing angel

that won't go away for good. It's what we wanted, weathervanes

in the waning light. Lifted up, whimpering among the pews.

Listening ear close to shoulder, transept’s marble tiles crossing

themselves. A foreboding whispered to us all along...

why didn’t you think of it before her fall?

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