Cordelia M. Hanemann
out of the ruins
time of exile time of trial gauntlet thrown down the call who are we can we be who we have always thought we were blizzards loom on distant horizons blasts of cold gather your allies gather your warm clothes gather your tools you will need it all but mostly you will need yourself leave your weapons leave your diplomas your acquisitions your cushy space your wife your husband your mother father sister brother children or take them with you the road beckons the gate is open sirens are wailing in the town the news is not good you will need all that you've become to find the way through to find the way there and to find the way back take your memories your hopes all that you've aspired to be and more the world may seem indifferent but it is not it's a mean one every zone a war zone where the cost is you where the peace is spoiled no matter who wins but you take your poems and your stories and your music take your heart warmed by a flask of hope because you are the good and you cannot beat them at this most dangerous game those other ones you are the chosen all of you skulking for now in the shadows of your blood-haunted streets crumbling walls pocked with bullet-spray broken glass of cracked windows doors on hinges your town upended destroyed the other city the frightening city of steel and concrete towers of flashing lights and raucous laughter hyenas braying in self-satisfaction has sprung up in its ashes casting shadows over familiar landscapes no language of salvation no poets prophet is (dis)spelled by profit the steeple a bank the only god a god of business the golden-haired boy has saved the world for the card-sharks the bad boys who hold the hands the hands of the poor in shackles make the rules make the lists check them twice you are the alien who walks in the dark the moon hiding in the cold night you are the lost one finding the road by the stones you left behind to mark the way but the wild dogs are mad they are howling at the hoped-for full moon in the days to come who has the full-house the royal-flush the biggest baddest guns of all will win and when the smoke clears the wages of sin will have been paid the deadliest game… it has all been just… housecleaning you should return home come bring your children and your heart and your stories and all you have learned from your own dark journey--come home to what's left you have the goods to re(dis)cover America make her over shed the mis- takes rebuild the house till the yard reach out your hands to your new neighbors
Poems by Cordelia Hanemann have appeared in Turtle Island Quarterly, Connecticut River Review, Glassworks Magazine, and Laurel Review. Hanemann holds a PhD in English literature from Louisiana State University. A native of Southwest Louisiana, she now lives in Raleigh, NC.
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