September 1, 2016Volta
to the dead, to the changed
When they still ask us what we made
of the year that begged to not-be, not be
survived, recalled, or seen, unburied we
will hold them still to stare across a suede
silence of struck spines lying, storm-paved,
scatter-abandoned as wintered cars, flood
of bolt-white stars, the reindeer-caked mud
for miles of August mountain in Norway.
We will tell them, this is how we prayed:
lost, taken from ourselves, hauled into sky;
riddled, electric, shot through with night.
We will tell them all, this is what we said:
world-without-us, leave us where we lie,
smoke-boned bodies black-blown with light.
from Poets Respond