Margaret Bashaar


Fear of God has always been in me,
right down to smallest bones, down
to roots of unplucked hair.
We read exorcism rites
aloud in bed. Every cell of my body
hummed hallelujah, but cannot pull aching
from my throat — still circle you,
huge bird of prey in your dreams,
still shift weight from one foot to the other.

Should have known when I pressed this
black and white Polaroid to my breast —
plane from New Orleans to Baltimore,
whole palm tensed.
Should have known when I had to restart
lungs, shifting blood, sloughing skin.
Day they proved the God Particle I saw
the small spot I was, how I walk this town,
same pattern the universe expands from,
too old to see everything a sign.
I've loved one too many skeptics.
Darling, you ringing cluster at my throat —
I tied you there, am not sorry for it.
Watch us collide.
Watch God explode from our skin.

Margaret Bashaar is the author of two chapbooks; Letters From Room 27 of the Grand Midway Hotel (Blood Pudding Press, 2011) and Barefoot and Listening (Tilt, 2009). Her poetry has also appeared in or is forthcoming from journals such as Caketrain, New South, RHINO, Thrush, and Copper Nickel, among other. She lives in Pittsburgh where she edits Hyacinth Girl Press and collects antique typewriters, always hoping to find one that's haunted.

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