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