Stained glass coloured like the wings of a butterfly –
a découpage of life after a thunderstorm.
© Fiza Arshad, 2017 All rights reserved.
The taste of the polluted air –
exhaust fumes garbage strewn
water locomotive whooshing sounds –
rests in the thorax of city goers
who visit Queens Quay to watch
the depressed clouds settle in on
promises Tories make on the history channel.
© Fiza Arshad, 2016 All rights reserved.
If the wind had words,
what would they be?
Would it weep of the atrocities of pollution
that mark its path and paint it crimson?
Or grieve the lost blood of our ancient landlords
that guarded the beast of the Great Lakes
until it made a home out of their bodies
and we brought forth the shame on their fathers and forefathers.
Or perhaps it would crack into deranged laughter,
hiccuping the wreckage of mores and morales?
So in celebratory lunacy, it unleashes its own brand of reckoning,
vowing to account for every footprint.
© Copyright 2015