In the Mouth of a Terrible, Toothless God
By Lisa Grove
In the energy crisis my city has turned to burning angel skins.
I read by their light, a book of elegies.
A fruit fly lands on Amichai, I slap him flat
Against the page. Now it is an elegy for him, as well,
And his tomb. And I am a terrible, toothless god,
Stringing blades of grass between the tongues of sheep.
Ash of angel fire drifts over my head, falls in my coffee.
O Holy, Holy, Holy indigestion.
I bribe the coming day with open windows
And freshly washed underwear
Hung out on the clothesline,
Slipping hastily over the hips of winds.
The winds know, all you have to do is
Open your mouth, the flies will come.
Source: Poetry (November 2015)