By Noah Siela:
We call soda pop here.
And I’ve got my own way
of praying in the night
listening to the terrible friction
of wind against unarched angel wings,
flapping and at work
on the other side of the window,
kamikazes on a puff of God wind
pilot-guiding their divine payloads
into the armored flight decks
of the naive and content,
sharp-chime of crazed laughter
tinging like a tornado-chucked bolt
striking launched tin.
Yesterday, in the living room,
something dense and jagged
sat mid-room turning our
orchestra of stares into
pot banging and for sure
I leapt from that,
living only by falling
into a thousand pillowcases
stuffed with handwritten notes
to dead men with legacies
sad as broken bikes
piled in drained pools.
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About Noah
Noah teaches college-level writing courses in Iowa, after moving back from Baltimore. He also enjoys writing and social networking. His poems have been featured across many poetry sites.
