Brandon T.
Bisceglia
Josephus Saw the Cities - Why Can’t
We?
Twisting etches of fiery wrath
slid the fingerprints of our Lord
across the limestone -
Here the edifice is marked,
numbering the wretched martyrs of decadence,
who in an instant
broiled
and evaporated in the wake of His Kingdom,
Come.
In the hands of Abram's descendants
the ashes were cataloged -
The tale, deferring refutation,
is rewritten
with calcium carbonate and sulfur
speaking softly to eager hearts,
who nod their heads in agreement.
A priori, His Will
Be Done.
In all, a flutter of dust
and a pillar of salt
drift backwards toward their graves,
on Earth as it is in Heaven.
Consequences
A new plate spun puts china in
danger –
desertification wipes the greens clean,
exposing flat, barren expanses of white
that crash resoundingly
when they finale-fall,
cracking into
1.3 billion dead
shards
ætas
You fiddle the dials, staring long
downward out the cockpit's dome;
cringing at static, writhe ironically in your seat
'til I correct the buttons for you
and the sky infrontabove clears ecstatically
at the concentrated push of the peddle –
we paddle the rivers of sleek Fordian fish
to the inlet shore of the grocer's.
You complain idly about my father's mother,
how she smothers with her scrutinizing eyes
bentlow to absorb the colors of your parenting.
Children of black, green, blue, gold
should be red with the sweat of baseball and ballet,
but grow upout like crystals with new hues instead.
You tell me next I needn't justify myself.
But the scent of predation lingers for long
after the claws have retracted, and sidebyside
have come the tides; the times of protection
turnround; it is mine to justify you these days,
so that our wounds bleed as one.
Drifting home, the islands converge –
I saddle the weight of your milk and blueberries
against the strains of my own sustenance,
the bulgingcrinkle of paper and plastic
proclaiming my strength in the give of their grind.
And I feel the scrolls unravel to reveal
their mystery; the decree that our roles must
change.
Brandon T.
Bisceglia is a student of journalism, an editor, and a
lover of all communicative forms. His articles and poems
have been published in numerous local and online venues.
He currently resides in Stratford, CT.
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