I was waiting for a missile to go off.
over there
Watching the bridge and trying not to worry about the ducks

swimming underneath.
Trying to come up with a plan of some sort to

rescue them
and not
trample the flowers
and not
trip on mines
and not
find myself reaching for sky
why can’t you call me more?
in hopes the rain smells like
(your mouth eating the insides of my thigh)
fresh laundry.

Stop and bow to Syria.

I had a shovel to bury our avenged
and a spiral notebook, refillable pen
to write it all down
And then
KERPOW!
Something exploded near my eardrum,
and this is how we run—
we can’t
I was facing North
just waiting for a star shaped like a  shooting bomb
to paralyze the sun
and her passive horizon
but now I’m counting organs in the dirt.
The notebook is on the ground
and so is every grasshopper
taking cover from the rubble storm.
The clouds are a fireplace
when they should have been lakes
to cool us from ourselves;
just holding on to wrecking balls
and dancing like flares
that left the safety of the glass
to run amok among the charring saints
and take down every blade of green
that stood between God’s great promise
and another dreadful way.
Bleeding like a menarche;
my fingers look like rust.
All I want are white gloves
to pick the shrapnel from my knees
to caress your satin cheek
and the flowers are crying clots.

Stop and bow to silence.

And I
forgot about the ducks
and I
begged the ground to swallow me
and I
felt my cavities fill with fuming dust.
­     kiss me goodbye
I never asked for violence
but I get the fun of slaying covens
when the sky is red as open veins.
It makes a pretty picture
but now
­  just between you and me
it’s the skeletons who will write
the stories of today
to show the world
I love you

there is nothing left to save.

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