Where Do We Go From Here
I pretended that spring was my sister,
summer my concubine, that
my ambitions were blessed by the sun.
I beat my effigies as if they were pinatas,
finding nothing inside them
but dry bones and the stench of formaldehyde.
What will we do now,
watching grass grow
like stubble on a rapists face,
knowing the altars we destroyed
were never holy?
Where do we go from here,
now that words are lost
like gewgaws in an earthquake
and silence swarms around us
like the vultures of an empty prayer?