JOHNMICHAEL SIMON POETRY

Somehow the world still looked the same
arms of trees opening soft green windows
to blue grayness, morning chatter
birdsong, insects, and higher up
a white trail of jet echoing as it tore
a thin roaring trail through this moment
of sky, ho hint of despair in it

 

Last night I knew
something tore between us
a ligament, a back turned
eyes gazing bleak in other directions
as we tried to shrug the pain off
 

It’s nothing, I said, using paper maché

to cover the scratches your nails had torn
another layer and another
a band aid crossword over old reopened scars

 

And this volcano that rose under my skin
to belch flame and retribution
into the morning, melting the green
drowning bird talk, crushing all
in a sulphur river of smoke and lava
between your hills, your breasts,
down to your softest homes

filling all with hardening rock

 

This volcano
where has it gone?

 

As the world dries out, congeals
soil, growth and foliage appear
we commence the reconstruction
a gentle word, a brushing touch
a task performed together

Together we place a sign on the doorpost
to tell avenging angels to pass our house over
when next the mountain splits apart