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.
