Page 68 - The Woven Tale Press Vol. IV #9

59
Chicago Summer
Choirs of angels burn above the Stairwell of the fire escape.
Who would have thought
The tin can rattle of Chicago
Would ever fall silent? But it does
Under this blaze, the craze of city
Heat and cicadas, and suddenly Everyone all at once fails to believe
In mortality. Wildfire on the broken glass Glazing over the guavas,
The agave flowers: the Nopales Corner fruit stand becomes holy, Marked with emptiness.
It could almost send you dancing.
It could send you into mad fits. Only The clatter of crickets
Rants against this hush.
Trains and worlds and thoughts fall silent And the city comes in through windows And curtains and fire escapes
In hot breaths, in blazes,
Coming down
A muggy light smudged alive
Over an orange river
And for a minute, an evening,
The weight of heat becomes a unison
Of songs unsung, breath untaken.
There is nothing—no keening,
No sirens, not even a raised voice
Among the profundity of breath
Along the fence lines
And warehouses where broken windows Fragment a hundred suns.
sAvANNAh thorNe