A.D.
The eclipse is coming over the early dawn
of a fallen empire
while stars are revealed
through clouds at high noon
and the horses canter slowly
along an old barbed wire gate.
Their hoofs dig new constellations
into forgotten sand
as the hourglass drains faster
to zero
and behind the pastures of torn flags
bluffs crumble against the silent breeze.
We can see it from the north and the south.
But the trail goes cold where
the highway ends
and there’s a tide rising
the ancients know
will flood the valley.
New shrines will be etched by the current
that no prophets ever mentioned.
And as the last kid sinks under the surface
a flamingo will float by and drink
from its new backyard,
reaching its head from the water
toward the sky in a mighty gulp,
like it had always believed
in this new world.
Skinned Knees
Emmy doesn’t hurt here
like she did in the Poughkeepsie pool halls
when the boy she liked couldn’t wait
so he went for the easy kill
and her friend took the bait
and no one seemed to pay any price
when the sins were tallied up.
The rule book says scissor beats paper
but never rock,
and Emmy wasn’t always sure about love
but
her faith was enough.
She started as a kid with dirt in her cleats
and graduated to high school
before she skinned up her knees.
Even when the winters came
and the rivers iced up,
Emmy wasn’t like all of us,
she was never at her worst.
The Winnebago boys met us for wings
one of those frozen New Paltz nights.
They brought their guitars and a harmonica
but while they were tuning up
a pitcher broke and
somebody’s girlfriend took a fist to the floor.
The boys ducked out back
before the dust cleared
and we saw their Winnebago
skid down Main Street
just as the cops pulled in
and drew their guns on
everyone in the parking lot.
Conor Oberst bought them new shirts
and we watched them all on TV one night
in your new place.
Everyone was always running away,
but not you Emmy,
I could count on you to stay the same.
I remember the spring
and how the snows melted around
your broken town.
The rivers rose up and the
warblers headed north.
There was no sun in
your basement apartment
when the apples grew in the orchard
but even with all that dark
sleep was still tough,
so we started stealing your mom’s
Klonopin before lunch
and eating them for dessert.
You were always praying for Heaven
because life is Hell,
but our love wasn’t,
and God may have failed you
but the music will be better down below,
and you know all our friends will be there
so we’ll never have to
go home after last call.
We’ll finally have time to be ourselves
and no one will ever care that we spent
our whole lives
pretending to be everything else.
Emmy doesn’t hurt now.
Emmy doesn’t hurt now.
She stopped counting on the scales
to balance themselves.
BIO: Scott Laudati lives in New York with his grey parrot, Garrett. He is the author of Play The Devil (Bone Machine, Inc.) and Baby, Bring Back 1997 (Bottlecap Press). Visit him anywhere @ScottLaudati.
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