forecast

The moon will fall tonight. We will see the crater

from every shattered window in the city: Light

the size of God turn to dust, and rise –  a resurrection.

Such fabulous fear. The lamp post crackling like

Man’s last breath. No townhouse spared, no tin roof.

People, mid-glut, mid-spit. We will see them scurry

through unhinged doors, rib cages over night shirts.

See beasts hound their deeds through the churches

and up the minarets. They will fall flat on their bellies

tongues limp on the floor like hair, cut. There will be no

signal for those who want to mark themselves Safe.

The mother will raise her newborn to the sky and cry: eher.

Such a scattering of pride, of tongue. There will be no

way to run from A to B without an alphabet. No way

to tell the weather. This breeze will wind north,

will lift all the wounds. The forecast has warned,

there will be no forecast. Once the sun falls, we will rise,

hands on fire. There will be no fire drills.