Poetry and Poetics
Every cricket here has mated.
Hear it in the distant tone and timbre
of a tired, old drone: a chorus
for those who now wear only
white robes over lost bodies—
that chorus which for us rises evenings
in the cancer, neuralgic, and geriatric wards,
where all are far beyond triage.
Each moan, we know, echoes
a voice from that boundless night
preceding the afterlife.
Forget your body. Forget the afterlife.
God, give me back wolverine passion,
ability to dig my way into dirt road
before truck tires crush, before
hunters come with guns.
Bring sky. Settle my mind.
No, fill my veins with red ants.
Never allow my blood to pool or cool
or stand placid as the surgeon's before his work.
Thunder among my muscles. Hail
upon my bleached bones. Raise nations;
raise wind. Bow wheat stalks
in rivers. Scatter my seed
to those only with wings.
© by Kevin Rabas
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