Poem by Cathryn Shea
Please Give Me Your Ars
The sunset is grim with evacuations out on the coast and claret-red inland where wineries sear, vineyards with grapes burned at the stake. I lapse into a dead language, a wounded soliloquy reaching out like arms of a nebula. Salva nos, something far away repeats like an irksome tune when all I want to behold is art, beauty. Sun daubed on our sky, gauze bandages of clouds. Season of fires again. Predictable each year now and on schedule, part of a new portrayal of autumn. Bad air fitted with particulate matter seeps into my lungs for the long haul. Tomorrows parade around my kitchen table with its legion of empty chairs and stacks of newsprint where food should be served. But we eat in front of the TV, our minds flickering, snowy and lacy. I witness world events that require a dictionary vaster than my galaxy. No wonder what I hold feels obscure and I want to despair of convincing anyone these warnings are dire.
About Cathryn Shea
Cathryn Shea’s poetry collection is Genealogy Lesson for the Laity (Unsolicited Press); chapbooks include Backpack Full of Leaves and It’s Raining Lullabies. A Best of the Net nominee, her poetry has appeared in Gargoyle, Tinderbox, Permafrost, and Rust & Moth.