holy week, poetry

Dead Air Fool

Rust and rubble. Dead air cries. Was that a whisper from her crushed wind pipe? Or the sallowed song of smoldered bark?

Yesterday the sweet root bloomed. Today it’s dripping ashes.

He knew. She knew. It blew like fire. Wisdom didn’t stop it. Shading morning into mourning. Her dark blazed darker still.

Her teenage hand, a sculpted plan, upon the grey-red canvas. Marbled stone, white and reaching, now chilled beyond his world. 

Pouted lips were frozen closed, hushed by mass destruction. Green-gray iris blind, snuffed out light, by dust and night. Preserved for nothing more.

It was only yesterday.

He held his aching shoulder. Hunched around a La-Z-boy. Fingers twitching body stiff. Conjuring up an un-lived dream. 

Minutes snatched by moving phantoms, deaf and dumb and stuffed with discount beer. Numbers on the calendar. Ignored his dead air cries.

It was only yesterday.

She danced her danger softly. Asking more than should be answered. Wander balance razor tips. Spinning skirts too short.

Forgot regret, no plot to fill. Heart put still and ever twirling. They wagged their heads and fingers. She kissed her dad goodnight.

Last night.

But today the dead air cries. Could that be a heart thump, a death drum, a pummeled hope? Or just a sting of sadness?

Posture shackled bent and bowed. Cradling his baby. Touch too late, and right on time. A clasp on flesh exhaled.

Morons grasp the gripless dead. Irresponsible discretion. She is gone, they sighed in pity. He waits. He holds. And now he is.

Today the dead air cries. But will the fool be found? How does he keep his dead?

Yesterday the shoot hath sprung. The force that drives my blood, his flood. Today the worm chews silent.

Waiting, holding, as the dust. Settles. Buries. Petrifies. Choking on the sour wine. Dribbling out her ashes.

His crushed head, hers. Her scarred hand, his. How the dead one loves his fool. 

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