And then on Monday




Seen from above
she is God’s creature–
writhing up from loam
believing, believing in her emergence–

Seen from below
she is cast out of Heaven–
wings that no longer fly
beat toward the sky, anyway.

Dawn dulls the drug–
Somewhere there is footfall–
squeaking sneakers
take blood, bring toast.

Between the blinds
the lit train glides.
Passengers avert their eyes–
her sigh escapes and passersby
blush beneath books
and coats–

The chapel doors
are frozen closed;
samovars discreetly dried;
collection plates and skirts aligned;
but still all the icy vines
let fall their great
dead weight.

Her fever dream cleaves
and she rises, unseen,
an inky, unknowable sleep
bowing behind her.


–Teresa Kiplinger

Leave a comment


Please note, comments must be approved before they are published