Morning, the dead
heat of this country hovers along the road
where as children we tiptoed toward cathedrals
of tents sizzling through the trees, nylon stretching
toward sky and, inside, silver buttresses ribbing
to a spire, rising upward like a hand clasped
in prayer, turning light into a labyrinth of shadow.
An empty bottle of wine, bits of tin foil, a dirty
mattress: take this and drink, my brother’s chubby
hands lifting a rusty spoon, an old blanket robed
around him, this is the body as it was given up
for you… until my father finds us, breaking us loose,
Stop—This is where people live, he says, a jet slurring
overhead. I will not tell you how the ground
shook in that moment, how sound flattened the air,
how all at once, we could hear the bells
erased from the earth.
Today’s poem is from Kelly Michels's new collection American Anthem (The Gallery Press)
heat of this country hovers along the road
where as children we tiptoed toward cathedrals
of tents sizzling through the trees, nylon stretching
toward sky and, inside, silver buttresses ribbing
to a spire, rising upward like a hand clasped
in prayer, turning light into a labyrinth of shadow.
An empty bottle of wine, bits of tin foil, a dirty
mattress: take this and drink, my brother’s chubby
hands lifting a rusty spoon, an old blanket robed
around him, this is the body as it was given up
for you… until my father finds us, breaking us loose,
Stop—This is where people live, he says, a jet slurring
overhead. I will not tell you how the ground
shook in that moment, how sound flattened the air,
how all at once, we could hear the bells
erased from the earth.
Today’s poem is from Kelly Michels's new collection American Anthem (The Gallery Press)
