wipeout.jpg

By Drew Learner

A Phone Conversation

By Nadia Kirmani

 

there’s a place

beneath heavy hymns and

above Saturn’s cycles

where I go when I

hear the unfamiliar

familiarity in his voice

through the

glass

screen that wavers

like the

fallen, fumbling

flag of a decimated

civilization of dependents

 

and I know

what

he’ll say

next is an

unsteady affirmation of

disguised truth that tricks self-

awareness into blind

optimism when his

words tumble

like bumbling

ballerinas with bright

eyes

 

and I want to

hold onto a steadfast something

between the slinking

shadows of a cold and

unforgiving universe that

pries open hands in

prayer

now manacled to

fortune’s flirtatious

frivolity

 

once more

determined to dismantle the

comfortable order of

people that need

people and some

more than

others under

the oppressive light

from a slivered

moon pinpricked

by God’s welcoming

hands Himself

 

and

wondering

whether the silent static

I hear and

stifled breaths

mixed with cold

sympathy and

haphazard cheer is

the trademark of a foreign

brother and sister

and an emblem

of birds with

pecking beaks

that win a destined

war

 

and

hoping that her body

won’t crumble

in on itself and steal

away the

inspiration that turns

Our Icy Sphere

of blue and green

in transient

orbit