The morning after the election when my lungs refused
I saw that I was phosphorescing like a jellyfish, a pulsing
blob of white in a sea of diffuse uncertainty in which
the slenderest slivers of light above the seething calm
were inked out as thousands expelled jets of black
and brown to cloak their shape and confuse the
hunter enticed to these waters by the need to
feed on disparity, to seize and devour even
the shadows to which the tremulous flee
and pray for protection that might not
come in time if it comes at all.
Within the murk now thick with dread, the murmuration
of innocents becomes a mass for the dead, a lament
weary of sundered assurances and hope’s demise,
and well below where worm-scarred timbers lie
amid bones of other others lost or tossed to the
deep and long since adapted to the lack of air,
wide dark eyes mark the flailing above and
unhinged jaws form a soundless sigh of
empathy ascending, for they know
the price of difference will
always be paid.
© Dana Hughes 11.24.16
Magnificent. I read it to Craig, who was rendered speechless, but to say that you’re gifted. You are indeed. And with more writing, more of the gift surfaces. The entire second stanza is just an incredible use of language. The ache in th s is palpable,as is the message.