Slouching toward grotesque at warp speed
By Carol Aronoff

the shadow will have its day, the id-driven,
phobic and counter-phobic, their time to rise.
Still, tides will go out at the dark of the moon.

What can I say to the sparrow who flies over
desecrated graves at an old Baptist church, hungry
children, to alight on the branch of an olive tree?

How do I write hands that cling to overturned boats,
reach through barbed-wire fences, try to scale walls,
cross borders unnamed. There are no words.

The smell of rot drifts across the Potomac carried
on chaotic winds. Turkey vultures circle overhead.
What do I tell the old woman with numbers on her arm?

The world has become a hot potato with black eyes
and burnt skin. The poles are melting. Where are
the places of refuge for those who are colorblind?