Is There An Angel In This Place? Poem by Susan Marie Watkins

Of the black abyss &
Hair-shirt gall, sulfur
Smoke & blood?

In the silence
At the back of the bus
The Black Shirts' howl of
“Hail, Fuehrer! ” blossoms in my disappointment
Like a gunshot wound,
Like an open sore,
Embracing my heart
In a vine of icy razor wire

What hands reach out?
What voices in tongues
Call me to communion,
To sup, to wine, to dine?

In a sweating iron garden
Under eternity
I crawl backwards
Through a vague & savage darkness,
Into an uncivilized place
Where freedom is impossible

And Shiva, blue-skinned creator, destroyer
Sits in eternal padmasana &
A leopardskin loincloth,
Eyes half-lidded,
Contemplating the ages:
An untamed void deeper than time