words

at 9:01, a moment late,
the first wednesday of each month
the sirens set to wailing,
raising up
out of the cloistered morning
a ritual mock fear,
a test,
a reminder to remain vigilent
even in the calm breath of september,
the awkward blind spot
on the backside
of the summer nuclear
and just before winter returns
with its penchant for dead things.

a simple tone
at some thousand hertz
that sounds so peaceful
as i lay here
dead in all but definition,
waiting with schizoid abandon
for the day
those sirens sound unscheduled,
perhaps a thursday
when everyone is off guard
slouching toward the weekend
and unbelieving
that a disaster should occur
at such a kinetic time as now.

the cycles diminish,
denumerate
and the silence settles in,
then the insects,
the birds momentarily still
wondering if this is the day
long storied in their blood,
forever echoing
through the narrow chambers
of their little hollow bones
and i lay back
and commence to wait
like so many patient parishioners
for the waiting to be ended.

-S.C. Martinez