I Eat Poetry

Last One Laments


Explosion slept,
bricks glowed phantom moss
and shadows dried
to ash figures skulking.
Somewhere above,
liquids powdered to dust in veins,
packed tight in roasted skins —
paper people.
Crevices yawned,
coughed lava spatters
on an ember land kindled by errors.

Here in layers on steel-framed layers,
inside concrete sandwiched deep,
quiet pops.
Hell’s belly-safe is hot and hollow,
armies march a distant tread
and fantasies whisper,
cold tongues flicking
around the ears.
Really, no one’s here.

The floors above
and walls around are straining
sick chords,
dark corners hiss.
The only song in this abyss
is boiling from the core.

by Lindsey Nair