Calamity hides under cover
lurking in corners ready
to rear its head.
It lies in neat lab reports
charting white blood cells
run wild.
What is this savage God
who pushes us down to comas?
Sneaking along icy roads
daylight ends while sea gulls
circle steel grey skies.
Brake belts wheeze and whine
snapping apart as we careen
against the long cold night.
What is this savage God
who lunges us into storms?
An official white envelope
stuffed with subpoenas
waits at the mailbox.
Memories of hot words
like razor blades slash
across our faces.
What is this savage God
who rips open the heart?
So we stand on the edge
breathing mean air
smelling fear.
Fires leaping out of rooms
where twisted wires
blaze from walls.
What is this savage God
who stabs us with flames?
Beakful | Becquée is a space for poets, artists, writers, essayists, reviewers who don't necessarily want to get involved in a larger project, but want, from time to time, to place some of their work outside. Header: Jean-François Millet, La Bécquée, 1860. ISSN: 2647-5294
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