Two Poems


Michelle Detorie

TOO MANY TO NUMBER (Pink Tide)
 
It began like pins, pursed lips pledged
 
to pardon. Pursuit became unnecessary.
 
For every root there is a grub, ground
 
tunnel turned and funneled like a mouth
 
opening out. Uncovered dirt filled
 
with shovels. The twitch-light glinting.
 
There were teeth, and then there were
 
entrails. They'll save us the gory details.
 
 
 
 
ELECTION
 
Electric birds, electric war:
 
underneath you're all wires, pentecostal
 
as if rising up from flame fingers, wings
 
released rains of blessed waters. Underneath
 
we're humming, soaking in ruins. All spring
 
the reins of afterfeathers aftershock
 
take root in our ribs; this longing
 
springing up -- how it reaches
 
for tongues turning brass in the ashes