5
a.m. (4 a.m. EST)
The
island from above
Became a hook, gesturing.
Filled with
sounds,
The shape of three fingers.
The
family, bereft,
Witness to the 5 a.m.
The bruise-colored money
left.
The motorcade on the left.
The
slit, a haiku:
Focused, deep as a tap.
To stab a man,
To write
a haiku.
Crimson
almost-morning:
The abettor.
Bermuda has
One more flower.
I
could feel the gushing of morning coming on.
The road acted its
role admirably.
I was a visitor in an intimate land of
hand-violence.
The sky was a place of water-stitched clouds.
The
houses were each colored like a type of Bermuda wound.
You juggled
the affliction of the parking lot passing,
The gift of being native
to somewhere.
The
cricket song stabbed the night, black as the soles of my feet.
I
paid to touch down here, to view the throbbing iguana.
I enjoy my
subtropical epiphany, that people die in Bermuda.
I bested the
palm’s best frond.
I was an hour older than myself.
The flowers
shattered the silence of the monochrome,
The unfinished cathedral
of St. Catherine.
And I see the drink in the air, I see the breeze
sagging with storm,
I note it all, I note the shadows of the palms,
lazy, tanning;
I note the white bones of the gravestones and
the
whiter bones below.
Megan
Amram, 2013
