Linda Morgan Smith, 7/12

Aftershocks (NOPD)

 

Outside the gates of the locked sturdy houses,

the cops are running wild with their scorpion’s tails,

a stinging, shrieking, blue-line, blurred,

Their engines fueled and racing,

A siezure of flashing pain spinning in the general direction of anywhere

to a place where something went wrong… or not

 

There is a predator

submerged

and watching,

waiting,

and pressing

his right ear to the ground.

 

An alarm clock

ticking in his left ear.

The gears are winding the stem too tightly.

 

He lunges with hands spread flat;

his stubby fingers are spiked and stiff,

suddenly his hands grab into two fat fists,

his knuckles rise into ten hard stones.

The powder. The smoke. The flash.

Cold metal warmed by his scorched skin

 

The moon is hidden and the stars go dark,

rage is seeping along the ground.

 

He stole a measure of God’s own heart.

 

Linda Morgan Smith is a visual artist in New Orleans, Louisiana. 

Promote. Poetry.
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