Poetry- Megan Stratford

buried

she’s just where you said i’d find her
half-way buried
underneath the pendulous trapeze
to hang off of on afternoons that couldn’t move days like
this one when i smelled these collapsed parts before befuddling
onto sleep which was kept tidy &
in the shape of comfort without cushion
blessing misplaced in evenings umbra

my name is christened in a far off city
just as the fallen seraph descends capsizing my shaft
for at one time been suitable for glory
today contrived to squirm its way
through and into me
a spirit not that of the
three in One Yahweh
but spirit which robs me out of time
spirit withholding claim what was rightfully upper G’s to accept
to whisk away on chariots which gleam
and not be subject to such servitude belly forth
and tagged to trespass against
a night such as this of song and dance


homicide

if i should go before your mother
then sit fast
& redraw her hands
off the combination for minds of their own
have inkling
on where the stash of bullet casings are kept
clanking with homicide
be it mission impossible to follow
& enter into
a place i won’t be
place where belief isn’t prayer enough
place i pipe dream we walk through
with one accord
if only i could be certain
of who should go & when

Future Father

in the beginning says He who created the terrene
in six days, resting on the seventh to admire
it as good, to see it for what it was, foolproof—
however lacking the body, which even by name
had not been formulated though
through grit & animation rose husband,
future father & without exception nation, which
superseded son of the Almighty Providence,
brother of no one rose he
rose he, bare & unashamed, overseeing all that
was finished in the beginning

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