It is lonely on cool tiles of my corruption
eye on domes of Rome, midday stretches
lethargic silence on ashes I burn
in the high sun on red rooftops basking in refuge
feathers from ashes, feathers short of a wing
to glide down like a raven to your chiral streets
there’s a congregation praying for my salvation
a choir singing the gospel, mirage on church steeples
I wring last drop of resolve in your mouth
and keep a river in my womb to wash my disillusionment
squatting to gut irony collected on your stairways
raw against my breastbone, fishing line stringed
putrescent promises familiar in flared nostrils
same as ancient prayers filtering through parched tourist lips
I will tell you again of pagan sins kneeling in confession
when you stop searching for the righteous woman
buried under four layers of leathered skin
you ask me if I want to pray with you for redemption
I ask you where do we go from here
where do we go not to converge in a dream
© 2015, poem, Silva Zanoyan Merjanian, All rights reserved; excerpted from Silva’s latest book, Rumor. All proceeds from the sale of this book go to Syrian Armenian Relief Fund.
The BeZine 