Arts & Culture / Convergence / Health / Politics / Vol. 2 No. 3

eye to the eye of the storm
a selection

Nicole Peyrafitte, KA Kingston JaunedOeuf

Image Credit: Nicole Peyrafitte, KA Kingston JaunedOeuf (2020). Courtesy of the artist.

unbearable witness

i do not want to write these words_

escorted by flashing red and blue lights

the long white truck an enormous hearse

passes slowly down the street

through the neighborhood

no where to run or hide from its path

the stare of its headlights

a mark on each door in its wake_

shudder, moan, whisper a prayer

for all of us

dead

living

dying

seed

star

more…..

morning prayers in the eye of the storm

 

#1

give me five more minutes

before I have to wake up

into this nightmare day

 

#2

please

no more death today

no more death

 

#3

“god bless mommy and daddy

and gramps

and Robert and Trevor

and Aunt Edith

and everybody in the whole

wide world..” and god help us…

 

#4

seed

star

a prayer

health strength and

strawberries

for my mother

that we’ll hold each other again

in this life

kiss red tulips

the blacker the berry

and the beautiful ladies

in the beauty parlor

 

#5
child

of another apocalypse

continuing

I wake

pondering

the price of privilege

counting crossroads

and looking back

into the future. . .

 

civil wars

for June and Ethelbert

 

at the well heeled foot of the park where the wind roars around a traffic circle

in a nest of tall luxury apartment buildings the angels of death

flank the figures of free men and union soldiers in a tableaux of bronze sculptures

atop a war monument in the style of the arc de triomphe

a monument, the poet wrote, to an unfinished civil war. the men, freed

by their own hands from an apocalypse of four hundred years and continuing

a bloody baptism. the angels, the valkyrie, who ferried the best

and the bravest from killing fields to odun’s halls to join the deathless band

preparing to battle against the world’s imminent destruction in an upheaval of flame,

are those angels taking the black men to heaven?

the fire next time?

these days the streets are quiet until, noisy with ghosts, they are not. when push comes

to shove settlers break camp but the state still be smiting the brother down

mourning women wail across eternity from the stolen tombs of antiquity

and where are the lovers now?

where are the lovers now?

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