Elegy
In the grey hour after morning prayers
the news opens to that
fireball, extinguished star
hole in the city where Paradise fell
& fell
& fell, the ash-filled streets
the grey hour, the woman's white
dreadlocks,
the world is insane,
she is saying
Photos of the beloved in green
& silver frames on desks
of the workers, a white mug
of coffee, a red
purse, the words
of angels caught
in a thousand exploding
windows
One explosion, then another,
white light
all the photos sliced
from their frames
A sidewalk of flowers:
chrysanthemums
turned grey
as the cerebral cortex, row after
row lined up neatly
against the broken street
The Red Angel hovers
on a stained glass window
in Hohenschwangau; now
she is taking
inventory-- the innumerable
broken stars, reams
of charred paper in the blackened
rooms, the rings
& rings of messages
spinning, unheard
on the voicemail, goddamit
don't turn that TV on says the man
to his wife in Queens
two days
after the Inferno
One burnt slice of toast
is left on a white plate
on the white kitchen counter;
we fix
a late breakfast-- coffee, raisin
bread, an orange--
after drinking
& dancing past
midnight, unconsoled
Dear Lisa,
Some of the trees are
turning a deep scarlet along
the Lamoille River & wind
is cold. Phuong
is flying home to his
comatose son in Vietnam,
Ho Chi Mihn
City, red
lanterns; I imagine
them waving in the plum dusk
A blizzard of leaves--oak & maple,
silver birch, this brilliance
of autumn in Vermont,
the mourning of cities,
of their beloved, a thousand
upon a thousand
calling from under
a soot heaven.
— Rita Maria Magdaleno. Vermont Studios, 9/14/01.
—"A Handful of Branches," photo by Rebecca Seiferle.
—"A Handful of Branches," photo by Rebecca Seiferle.
