The flavour of unravelled time

What did they do before fear? Before god? Did
people kneel? Press palms together? Or was it
just the inexorable beauty of dusk that dried
their mouths and fired their loins, stars stuck
in their molars, thighs tight together, ankles
twisted around roses so red they must have
bloomed from the mortal wound of the earth?

Mornings, before its sores are visible, before
the gangrene in its cracks begins to reek, this
city becomes the line of separation between
fear and hope. Its roads lift up from the
edges of crumbling sidewalks, grab your
ankles, the sky impales pre-light into your
eyes, your body crumples like a promise that
should never have been made. The daytime
moon holds your throat and plucks from it
like a beastly silver bird, the undigested
remains of a thousand generations that
tastes of wings and bones and milk and the
knees of sinners scraped against the asphalt.

Fear has the flavour of unravelled time, of
frozen bile, of unspoken language, the rhythm
of footsteps matching the slap of ocean on
shore. Before there was life, did death kneel?
Press its hips together? Raise the arms of the
unborn sun like a praying mantis destined to
be crushed by a wayward shoe? Mornings, this
city becomes the line of separation between
yesterday and the road that never ends.

 

The City Poems – #3
(The City Poems- #2)
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