——–—given this hour, afterwards, when the door,
——–—hanging aside, wrenched from its hinge,
opened to the threshold (we thought) we’d cross
——————–—–—it happened to be us it happened to: fire:
pointless, until it finds an edge.
—————————————In this age all edge, fire
——–—showed us the door.
easily, it seemed, the door surrendered,
———————————————–—fixed its paned blue stare
——–—of sky on the sky from shards the fire axe thundered
to the ground:
——————nevertheless, earth recollects its place: the burned
——–—walls stand, ghosts,
——————————–—everywhere (—I stand at the door—)
peering into walls, seeking more walls: to us
——–—and its broken silhouette returned
we stood in the water-stained stair
—————————————–—-well, empty with emptiness:
given to want:
——————what looked like ghosts also looked like thirst:
Gina Franco is the author of The Accidental (CantoMundo Poetry Prize; Arkansas) and The Keepsake Storm (Arizona). New work is appearing or forthcoming with American Poetry Review, AGNI, Narrative, and the Orison Anthology. She teaches at Knox College.