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July 18, 2012
Poem where I pretend bells are like windows--
the keening of scattering glass
warmed in a microwave to sound like
dying copper or maybe
bronze,
whichever has a sweeter voice, a deeper, more lovely cry
when you crack them, try to seal it later
like a hatchet mark on a tree that will
attmept to heal with every leaf
plucked off for people to walk on,
Sweet juices rejected by paint on the asphalt,
crushed,
like the heart of a person with
a barrel in their throat
and silver in their palms,
singing as a life shatters.
© Kathleen O., Jim Thorpe, PA
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