by Adam Usman Garko
The night sauntered in—
A black-haired angel
Amid fire a messenger sent
A voice echoes the length of abyss—
And desperation could be any angel
In this deep year of eating prayer
living in past & in present trauma
then dust would signify a body meant
to die before the sun goes so lonely
At night the lion so strong the death unholy
To hold the soul of a poet’s mother —
where are any of God’s hands?
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