Yolanda whispers of tomorrow

by Melissa


vulnerable lives strewn like umbrellas in the

gutter after the typhoon clears our area

of responsibility, we can’t take anything without

destruction somewhere in the end.

the truth of our world

splayed across a shopping list

a shattered window

the poster of a politician’s face

they satisfied themselves with the chase

and the meal afterwards

a shrine or the event itself?

today’s news  in a puddle of water and gas.


tomorrow will she rage tears in the darkness?

wailing, forgotten in the corner with the cost of rice

always rising like the rich, failing

pitched inevitability like a tent city.

the world falling around her

(ravaged as they say only ever in the wake of a hurricane

passing off the western seaboard)

her story shunted aside

in the banquet of another day as usual

traded for a fucking dollar

consumed naked and fast

like a perfect slice of white bread.


please god, tomorrow will she breeze by the window?

a touch that travels wet along the coast, a peal of joy in her name

the harvest falling under our tongues

as lovers before the waves surge then

balancing history on the edge of her lips

a moan lifting like a puff of smoke

from the hearth where nothing is wasted

messenger to the world, to the very soul

of a world beyond cries in the darkness.

where truth swells like an awareness seeping steadily

into the wellspring of our being together.




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