“And out of his mouth went a sharp sword…”
— Revelation 19:15
Just the wing of the sun
before the clouds
stitched together their body bags
Just the flash of a sword
before rain bled through the grey
each drop a victim of the word
An empty parking lot
is post-apocalyptic in the dark
what a place for the rapture
The wars that are elsewhere
take hostages at home
and murder is prologue
Just the wing of the sun
the flash of a sword
the children never born
After unloading trailers
we cut open the last watermelons
like they were green suns
brimming with sweet water.
After loading trucks
with peaches for market
we picked a basket
of sunset for ourselves.
After carrying
cases of grapes,
I wore a crown of bees
and a sash of grape leaves.
After filling bins
with oranges
sunlight gushed forth
from the warehouse door.
“that strange gratuity of horses.”
Hart Crane
I stop as the horses thunder past,
Heart lifted with them, breath caught.
Horses made of moons and meadows
Chase the wind
At the speed of their own black light,
Or glowing, gleaming chestnut
Coming out of fog,
Following the sun to its stable of fire.
Space and earth leap in their strides;
Their hooves storm like hailstones.
The mist clears in their wake
Like the mane of a lightning bolt
Over the trembling pasture.
A white horse turns to shadow,
Galloping over the salt of stars.
Then they’re gone,
Like night into deeper night—
Yet their fire lingers behind my eyes.
How many more seasons can I take?
Between each lies the hell that change can make.
When I think of peaceful times,
Tears smell of rotten limes.
The officers who arrest me on the street
Have all fallen for lack of feet.
The wellness felt a moment ago,
A plant that stubbornly refuses to grow.
It is the turning of the years
I cannot face it through my deepest fears.
The illness of loosening cold
When fogs begin to fold.
With these fading lines across the page
I surrender fully to the rage.
With these liminal lines across my face
I vanish into the human race.
Once, I went out into the blizzard
to buy milk, bread, and some black hash.
Then I didn’t leave the apartment for a week.
Snow erased the street below.
Buried in Dostoevsky, I read
“The Brothers Karamazov”
as though I were on Moscow time.
I didn’t need the outside world
to know what was cold, what was evil,
what was passionate or profound,
— and the hours drifted elsewhere
as if in Russia.
At the 1984 Summer Olympics
in Los Angeles, a marathon miracle occurred,
a marvel of distance and persistence,
struggling, disoriented, vulnerable,
Gabriela Andersen-Schiess
did not win gold, but won the stadium,
as witnesses to loss and triumph,
their hearts breaking and rising together,
joined in the same Mass
of human frailty and fortitude,
seeing the spirit, naked and grotesque,
her limbs cramping and contorting,
a puppet on its last fraying string—
the body on its own crutches;
dying, and refusing death.
The Finish Line our own beginning.
“Thou art no Atlas for so great a weight.”
—William Shakespeare
Condemned to hold up the canopy of the sky,
Burdened with the strength of Hercules
In so small a body as mine.
Resolve among my virtues.
To lift such weight is to defeat gravity
Inside yourself, to rely on spirit
To shoulder the heaviness of life—
Heavier still the will to quit.
I would have wished a gold medal,
To stand upon the pedestal
Wearing the flag of my country
With my head bowed humbly,
The grace of poetry at my sides.
But at what cost does gold outshine the sun
Whose radiance will come undone.
I celebrate this moment while it lives,
Knowing that beyond me, time will run,
And exhaust all distances.
In a single day the sky
has swallowed the leviathan of night
and every cloud that veiled the light.
The stars have folded their maps away,
leaving only the pale grammar of day.
Now that you have peered into its eyes
it is up to you to write
with the same clarity
in which time is lost.
The last “yassou” in Greek Town
Made ouzo shots fly up as one.
A Greek, Italian and Australian
Created madness therein.
The divine imagination
Was at least equal to the heroic sum.
A taxi drove us home at five am,
The meter set at sunrise’s minimum.
The Haitian cabbie hesitated
As though on voodoo we had visited:
Like the wing of a soaring sun
Countless gulls lifted as one.
“Montreal Drinking Story” celebrates one night of creative energy, as a Greek artist, an Australian musician, and the Italian poet—together embodying “divine imagination”—move from revelry to a mythic dawn witnessed in the rise of hundreds of gulls.
Salvatore Ala 