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Poem: God on the Racks

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Melanie Gasmen/THE REVIEW

Staff Reporter

God on the Racks

You up there
howling through the wind, 
do you hear me cawing 
with a frozen beak?

I’m singing you my song
of languages that I don’t know. 
I’m raining on the crumbling soil
not near the chestnut tree. 

The raven snores with the nightfall,
the morning dreadful
with the blinds baring sunshine
in the cracks of door frames. 

Do you hear me when noon
whistles in the heat? 
The winter warmth is only buried
in the depths of midnight. 

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