Blackbird Archive← v14n2, Fall 2015Poetry · Volume 14, Number 2
Retrieval
Rapture in tunnels, in that radiant fever
of black dahlias flinging their sex
into the heavy air, gods and their wild-eyed
saints, a sea that whips itself into a
plunging dark. From the shipwreck they pulled
pyrite, instruments that shroud their
lost music. Rapture in chalky stars slung into
the rib cages of magnolia trees, windows mottled
milky with children diving for bottles. O grief,
when the owls begin their slow, gentle croon,
may we climb onto the highest pillar and
gather ourselves for the first wind like mammals.
