the winter downtown lost power, we were already well-versed in prayer

& what of this impossible war? with our swarm of limbs. with our bounty
of need. this glass-blown house, the demons / kissed out, each doorway
blessed. nails tense / with fresh-pounded flint. & what of this filched bed-
room? its disrobed grief, quiet / as a grave. the mouth that tightens
at the sight / of blood. the bruised earth that wavers, seethes / its keening
threnody. & what of this weaponized landscape? winged / with next season’s
still-possible bloom, the promise of kerosene buzzing / in wet dirt. the whole breathing
constellation about to blow. & what of this cupboard / full of candles?
their voracious appetite. my mother aglow / in the votive’s glissando
flame. her fingers tethered / a match unstruck, eyes milky with wonder.
our tongues, severed / our idolism, misplaced. & what of the rooftops? seducing
even the most craven / eyes, tugging satellites / from their orbit. omens blackened
with smoke, malleable like soft tar. the speed of heat, staccato / our hollow guts,
holy / with rust. & what of the roar in silence? the stars & their magnificent
plunder / the sky’s dark. its washboard song. the heart’s / adagio march.
the snow / crisp & serene. in this version / our shadows, wanton / pinned
before us. the ditch is dug / soil splayed, swollen with want. the sunset is
miles & miles away.

Anthony Thomas Lombardi is a poet / writer and former music journalist. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Wildness, Third Coast, Gigantic Sequins, American Poetry Journal, Alegrarse Journal, Twyckenham Notes, Permafrost Magazine, Poetry City, and elsewhere. He currently serves as a poetry reader for the Adroit Journal, advocates for mental health and addiction awareness, and lives in Brooklyn, NY with his cat, Dilla.