The black hands of the Lord pressed to the ground The black ear upon the earth The black lips The black belly The black body uncomposed The Lord covered in crows pig-truffled The Lord honey for flies a locusts' feast The Lord a black harbor a tomb opened in smoke And canisters of bone and blood - munitions on the evening news There on the ground behind the cameras The almond-palmed hands still filled with clay
Where there were words, once. each right syllable grown into a song heap, now just a lighter square on concrete where, flood-soaked, the jeweled ink ran that day an amputated decade the mind assumes all is still there where you left it no vacancy, no absence, just muscle memory from an implacable cortex do not permit broken parts to forget wholeness. Looking for familiar symbols in invisible ink. Writing again with the off hand. Yes, even now my heart still skips like adrenaline stones each time I'm thrown across her wake each unanswered chip of water asking where it all went.