We watched the chorus fail— 
how the enormous fans filled  
with wind, fractured what was 
 
visible.
 
Consider air, the likelihood of lungs.

Only weaving a star has clarity—its pitch 
      waves directly  
      to thorn, to something found  
      between O  
      and dim cloud and it couldn’t be clearer  
 
this happened: my mother smoked in the kitchen. 
Dogwoods on my block—vision molding into 
      Red dust, movement 
                        of a swan.  
 
A lost hour exists  
out of time—here—in the actual   
      windshield pitched crack— 
      arrogant as the hawking 
      hunger. More now is 
debris— 
      Warm  
edges of prints 
      still from recalling 
      a hopeful one taught  
      to learn waiting through 
      wading through light  
      -scented pools— 
                        Be mum— 
 
Our love is a whip  
of cardamom. 

disturbed chorale

lauren goodwin slaughter