Checkpoint

You peer past blinds, transfixed before

the TV’s bright flicker in the silent dark—

a beauty goes under the surgeon’s blade, a love affair

ends, a brown eyed collie paddles wild waters to home,

everything concludes for better or worse. How you fear

that nothing resolves into sweet pathos, plenitude.

Ask yourself, who pities the world? If you could pierce

candescent skin, your mind a knife, what would the slow

blossom of truth, of blood, prevent or make? Dread

extinguished does not counterweight your grief

for babies shot at the checkpoint while father crosses

for work and bread. Find the worm inside an orchid

that glows, wander small town sidewalks,

locate illusion, hallowed and brief.

alison meyers

Alison Meyers ©2009. All Rights Reserved.