The Increasing Frequency of Black Swans
I was listening for the dog
when the locks were pried open.
The man was dead. The dog, a survivor,
was dead. It happens
more often this way.
A disease left
untreated; the body,
in confusion, gives in.
The bomb breathes its fire down
the hallway, the son comes back
in pieces; the body,
in confusion, gives in.
The grief is a planet. A dust ring.
A small moon that’s been hidden
under my pillow, that’s been changing
the way my body moves this whole time.
Copyright Credit: Camille Rankine, "History" from Incorrect Merciful Impulses. Copyright © 2016 by Camille Rankine. Reprinted by permission of Copper Canyon Press, www.coppercanyonpress.org.
Source: Incorrect Merciful Impulses (Copper Canyon Press, 2016)