Signs
Threading the palm, a web of little lines
Spells out the lost money, the heart, the head,
The wagging tongues, the sudden deaths, in signs
We would smooth out, like imprints on a bed,
In signs that can’t be helped, geese heading south,
In signs read anxiously, like breath that clouds
A mirror held to a barely open mouth,
Like telegrams, the gathering of crowds—
The plane’s X in the sky, spelling disaster;
Before the whistle and hit, a tracer flare;
Before rubble, a hairline crack in plaster
And a housefly’s panicked scribbling on the air.
—Gjertrud Schnackenburg
Nice poem, but note that “tongues” is misspelled in line 3.
Four rounds of my looking, and STILL missed that. Thanks!
I’m in pre-press; I KNOW how that can happen. Glad to help and I did love the poem…and your publication!