In Crisis

 

Our metaphors glisten and coalesce

emerging from mist like freshly-caught fish;

some rising up like hemlocks, needled, tall,

others slithering or skulking, and some few

in postures of sadness like parents, sons;

likenesses of the sea return, tidal,

with their beaches, moonlit, murmuring,

music we thought described our happiness

or a happiness beyond human pain,

beyond the words we threw out heedless.

Now nearly feral, searching redemption,

they grasp the least thing real, a splinter,

a tear stain, the flap of a banner in wind,

seeking the flat desks of their origins,

hoping to recognize a corner under a stair,

wanting the shelter of our tongues, our mouths.

Harold Ackerman - Berwick, PA