Wednesday, October 16, 2013

By Reason of Divine Right (OctPoWriMo Entry #15)



By Reason of Divine Right

The silver bowl is empty;
the whisk whusks, a skirling,
whirling sound like the smallest
stones stumbling down a hillside
after the avalanche, like a set of
keys drawn over a metal grate,
fingernails on emery.  The
discordant tones are
yours, excuses
dripping like soured
milk from a scuttled jug.

Were these the voices you
heard?  Is this the up-chuck
rendition of a mother, father
brother?   A bellyful reminder
of brimstone sermons and a
late-night slasher marathon?
Do not tell me these are
angels!  Do not tell me
that skirling, whirling
noise was mistaken
for grace, that you
looked into that empty
aluminum cup and filled it up
with blood as an offering to any god
much less the one I prayed to.



Poet's Note:  The prompt urged us to seek inspiration from the headlines. 

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