He Asked Me of My City

he asked me of my city
said it was dying

the sewers ejaculate
spoken word
frames and pastels
oil paints and prints
photo-genic videography
of still
            lives

poplars stand sentinal
along bleeding streets
their weary arms
stretch outward

an embrace, waiting
for the onset of winter

when the river cries
her voice is that of a dulcimer
like church bells pealing
during blackout restrictions

one
minute
silences

winter's sister wind child
grasps my hair
bony fingers tear
every ounce of my soul
until there is nothing left

nothing

but alabaster arrows
that announce
the first road of the Americas

where immigrant wools
and blackened hands from soot
united footpads of merchants
to one mouth of the mighty Pacific
paddling through streets

named

for The Great Emancipator


© Susan Marie 2009