Daniel Edward Moore

Fatal Hour

Ponder if you will the seductive side of sorrow,
like dirty cash in envelopes thrown at you by strangers.

We qualified for grief assistance, for roses to be ground
to dust then sprinkled on those who hurt us.

At a table set for ghosts. At the hour when deliverance was
kept outside the war zone. And, yes, I came back missing

the part of me known for splitting your world like atoms
to feed you joy. But look at us now, if we believe our necks

can pedestal beauty’s weight, like the murdered bird
at the park last Sunday, when morning left a swan on the shore,

revealing the blackened hearts of men. The morning news said,
Be thankful arms don’t grow little wings. Be thankful you were

asleep in bed when the sky became a pale blue casket, parading
clouds of feathers.

Daniel Edward Moore lives in Washington on Whidbey Island. His work is forthcoming in The Meadow, The Chiron Review, Drunk Monkeys, Sandy River Review, Xavier Review, Delta Poetry Review, Third Street Review and North American Review. His book, “Waxing the Dents”, is from Brick Road Poetry Press.