Shimmering light-forms lined up as a shield
against the stars, whose great explosions studded
the sky. Still falling slowly through a field,
the circling dust grew thick. A final yield
illuminated by tall tentacles, pale-blooded
shimmering light-forms. Lined up as a shield,
their pinkish glow turned day to dusk, revealed
coelenterates in rows and rows that flooded
the sky, still falling slowly through a field
where throngs in terror wondered what’s concealed
behind that curtain. What are these, we muttered,
shimmering light-things? Huddled close to shield
our eyes from throbbing thoughts, from sight congealed
on giant regiments — of what? — we stuttered.
Oh where’s the sky? Falling to a field
of ashes where our vagrant souls are kneeled.
And here at last, when all we are is shuttered,
shimmering lights, angelic, line to shield
the fallen sky, let stillness be the field.
Siham Karami is the author of To Love the River (Kelsay Books, 2018), a celebration of life from many angles and in many poetic forms. Her work has appeared in The Orison Anthology, Tiferet Journal, Able Muse, Presence, Literary Mama, and many other venues. A Florida resident, she is obsessed with photographing the striking skies there and what lies below them. A multiple-time Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee, she blogs at sihamkarami.wordpress.com.