by Asher Bentley
Waylaid angel, still, you lie there still.
crippled wings embrace black universe,
your mottled feathers kiss the ground,
the sky weeps but the crops do not grow.
And the prophets, they all sigh
And the children, they all sigh
And the tillers, they all sigh
One last breath
inhale black universe
Inhale, inhale black universe
Wings pointing inwards,
As if ashamed of our crystalline horizon
As if ashamed, as if ashamed.
They fold, hands that will not pray,
They fold, mouths that will not speak,
They fold, eyes that do not open
But the fields still remember you,
The fields still accuse you,
The fields still forget you
And still, you look but into
The small black chapel of your own wings
Where the prophets all sigh,
Where the children all sleep silent,
Where the tillers have laid down their tools.
What did you see when the sky turned inward?
Is this your final miracle, to become
The wreckage once beheld
Cradled once more,
Name it love,
Name it history,
Name it nothing at all
****
Asher Bentley is a writer and director, frequently working under the moniker of Dead Homes and he is also really funny and charming.