Dawn refuses to come. It is always night here. Spring is clenched in a child’s fist and that child is unrelenting. She will keep spring to herself as long as she has teeth, she will keep spring to herself as long as there is a point in doing so. And there will always be a point.
The sun is an old friend with a drinking problem. She refuses to rise if there’s no one watching.
A man carves a compass into the Earth below his feet, looking for the way to Jerusalem. Only the city is burning, and the smell of honey is everywhere. Only Jerusalem has never existed except on a map, only there never was a city called Jerusalem and this man is the last believer in town. He knows that he was dead the moment he let himself pray. He leaves town. It is already too late.
Dawn is a child, clenching spring in her fist. She bears the many shades of my mother and she is unrelenting. She knows that Jerusalem has fallen to a man with honey blinding his eyes.
She knows that it has fallen to a man with honey clenched inside of his jaw.
Ian Powell-Palm is a writer, poet, and musician currently living in Bozeman, Montana. You can find out more about his poetry and his future readings at his Facebook page, Powell-Palm Poetry.