[wpaudio url=”/audio/september12/Days.mp3″ text=”listen to this poem” dl=”0″]
Our sun failed,
fell from its sky straight
to our hands. You can bet
we ate that big ball of joy
on a plate, knives, forks, anything
to puncture. You can bet
someone stood in the corner screaming
“do whatever you don’t want”
stood with a pocketknife
carving negative space. O we pray
to lords on high please please
give us hunger, that hunger,
so much hunger we cull our friends’ hearts
bake them at four hundred degrees. Hunger
was not and never will be a problem of emptiness.
It’s a problem of the stomach, having a body
full of organs. Across the nation
we sit in circles with mouths full of scream
the churches’ foundations start in with the fire.
We come with arms cradling cash
asking friends of friends to write us prayers–
every time we watch a movie now
we go to bed and dream of falling
endlessly through a plastic sea.
No one thanked us for our kindled hair,
small head steeples, models of our
arrogance. How quietly we cursed
under our breath before cursing our breath
for its wandering into darkness. Streetlamps
remained until we began
the vomiting process. Pieces of sun
that slowly dried in a field abandoned by deer.
We recalled that our lineage lived in other countries.
This was not long ago. Let us pray
we’ll never be forced to live again.