The Revolution- By Greta Bellamacina
The revolution has mid-heaven eyes
they have been staring down and blinking up
clusters of women holding hands,
their voices black, apocalyptic violet black
dropping land from their bibles.
they are part of an unremembered walk walking
that moves closer and closer to new ghosts,
new buildings in new rain, new languages
holding stories of abandoned bones
recording the last of the treeecho parts
the last of the exhausted red shadows
the last of suppression
seasons, animals, mothers
blowing out low soliloquies of love
they have nothing to do with money.
a whole carpark of lights inside water
a whole heart of blood
resting on a whole heart of blood.
They have seen the naming of and renaming
of breathing earth that never leaves
but pulls at you harvesting
through the slipping dawn of daffodils
in prayers of freedom replacements wings
Geranium lungs ringing behind
classroom bedsheets of daytime
carried in the backs of vans
from one weather to another
the revolution is growing in your kitchen by the sink
crashing sky in the drains,
a throat of haloing eyes in the wind.