Tuesday, July 30, 2013

listen. we are fighting death with feathers.

We lost electricity last night
but the ceiling fan kept spinning,
propelled by savage winds
that broke our storm windows—
twisting the frames,
shattering the panes—
wrenching the
retching poor
from tattered tethers—
flagging and ravaged in pain.

The disease of death spread
‘round the house
from insistent circling blades
beyond dusting and rusting.

We attacked the pestilence
with feathers plucked from
sparrows we found quivering in the gutter.

This was the best we could do
given the amputation of the elderly,
the widowhood of the young lover
with his motherless child,
the infection of the shot soldier,
and the last lifelong labors of the home-bound sister.

the villain stole our knives,
damn him.

Our only defense,
a tremulous groan.
Our tongues suddenly stuck
inside dry mouths,
as concrete quickset inside our throat.

Our fingertips are bleeding,
too raw to write
for rubbing burlap sheets
in the blight.

Can anyone hear
what our mouths cannot say
and our hands cannot pen?

“How long?”

Why do you abdicate
when your subjects
need you to be
more than an Object?
Will you join us in our misery,
Divine Subject?
Pray do.
Stop the spinning,
calm the storm,
be our Center.

Cause these
suffocating stones
to cry out
in praise.

We are wrapped in misery
and trapped in a tomb.
It is time to remove the grave clothes.
Roll the stone away.
It has been long enough.

listen. we are fighting death with feathers.
a poem by troy cady

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