What do they know,
these slim, dark forms
still singed with crack-fire,
curving into their
church basement seats?
Later they will sleep—
bunked, bed-checked,
light as gas or ether,
while slivers of night
hang high above them,
lit by a cold north star.
For now, they spill out
from transport vans,
and after the meeting
troop up to the podium,
billets in hand. I sign them,
every one, in the raw
unfiltered ink-black blood
of my own unfinished
disease.
by C.W. Emerson
C.W. (Chris) Emerson’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in journals including Atlanta Review, Crab Orchard Review, Greensboro Review, The American Journal of Poetry, Tupelo Quarterly and others. Emerson was a finalist for the 2017 Two Sylvias Chapbook Prize, the New Millenium Award for Poetry, and the New Letters Prize for Poetry. He lives in Palm Springs, California where he works as a clinical psychologist, and studies with poet Cecilia Woloch.
Appears In
Cagibi Issue 3
