NewPoetry

Alice Burdick

Don’t trust these men, their violent pact
with arrogant power. A long walk
on a short pier. No full release,
hidden files of exhumed orbs.

Diamond-shaped unique experience.
Shambles, an absolute turn
down the wrong road.

Summer is growing low, glowing
through the trees. We stand on paths,
staring out at a flicking gleam.

Let’s contact the medium.
Love a conduit through grief
into a large crushing sky.

The message is a median
through cold shoulders
and false authority.

We hope for comfort
in the midst of a mass
of pointed human abuse.

We party because we
are alive, and a party
can be small and expansive.

We women especially lead,
as the fight in us exceeds
the weight of layered cruelty.

We shake hands before the riots,
a cordial agreement
that fire is a shared vision.

A harmonic bond in the strings
that bind our world. A song
into a bowl of songs.