Hover

Image borrowed from Bing

Hover


Damndest thing you could imagine,
your last visceral memory being
that flash,
that concussive sledge hammer,
with the lingering taste
of figs and falafel
on your torn lips,
hearing staccato rifle fire
between the Farsi beats,
the amplified calls
to prayer pounding through
the terrible heat,
seeing the blood sun setting
majestically behind a minaret,
bleeding day into the murk of the Tigris,
a quick glimpse of
two dogs chasing a feral cat,
two boys playing soccer,
two crows dueling over something dead,
the pungent smell of sewer nearby,
goat frying, gun oil,
some forgotten chocolate—
all passing in review on fast forward
as you rise effortlessly
from the operating table,
from ripped up heart shards barely beating,
between the big silver clamps
holding your chest open, up and up to
above the doctors,
above your own body, just this
whiffed smear of ambient light
listening
to the higher self saying
to the soul,
“Come home now, they are all waiting.”


Glenn Buttkus

July 2011

Listed as #9 over on Magpie Tales 76

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