Silver Trumpet Rapture

Silver Trumpets

like lost soldiers soar through

The Abandoned City center.

are they Gabriel blown?

I hear no voice of god-

No reckoning or second coming.

A woman, on the nod, leans against the rough stone column of an abandoned bank,

neck strained,

face towards the gaping sky’s dark maw,

clouded eyes are unfocused on the soft line of the marble columns,

dirtied putrid yellow everywhere

that human hands can reach.

I wonder if she hears the calling of God,

in those silver trumpet notes, or,

if she feels spiritual nausea at the thought,

like when I fleed the catholic church before I swallowed the eucharist,

Only to hear hymns through the ceiling of the tiled bathroom,

where I clutched

at my white dress,

to stop it from dirtying the blood-red tiles.

the music’s calling grows achingly sweet,

echoing like butterflys’ wings through opulent high-rises

(and fluorescent-lit church basements)

-it is not so delicate in its high notes now,

But sonorous,

all the same.

finally dying in the air,

in rapturous beauty,

the woman and I crumple.

to cement

(crimson tile)

floors,

our eyes,

finally,

face the dancing stars- which descend,

like so many small angels,

to bring laughter like soft bells, to our

dimming ears.