Stained Glass

by Mike Jewett


I peer inside the bomb, in
side the journalist’s behead

ed neck, and I encounter blood
leaf flowers, calyxes, and see

m to remember my reflection in stained
glass images of the Tigris. My son,

nursing from a sycamore tree
with a breast: Isis, glyph and god

dess. Ignore the caliphate; negate
their demands. Aim to erase the images

of an orange jumpsuit: my thoughts
are multi-colored polygons and, when

puzzled together, they coalesce
into a stained glass

featurette.
Our thoughts are totems

draining away aquifers.
I strap my thoughts to a gurney,

ambulance din
fracturing

the air as it rushes
off. My body,

left alone
with a night

mare-black
mask.

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