The Trigger

I believe it was that—

that cold night in December,

that flashed and burned Us.

That set off a canon of venomous smoke,

A perforating Spell,

A thin Atmosphere,

A puncture in the fabric of space-time.

And it was that moment,

So beautifully and perfectly

Wrapped in soft deer hide;

With some red, gold and green on a quilt

That infected Us in an instant--

Words, terrifying words just then--

Drifted through the air,

Chants from the album of “This Loved One”

Piercing and harsh and toxic;

Escaped from her lips just then.

And they splashed everywhere

In an ensnared mess,

upon my black canvas of a soul.

The Staircase Inside Rattled,

And it was as if a new level

Of Seismic Activity

Had Overthrown All the Playing Fields.

The ecstasy whistled away by Familiar Words,

Was now something

I had heard for the very first time.

But my pride had entirely vanished.

And all that was left,

Was some Sour, crippling despondency--

Still Looking for a Name.