That Kind of Safe, That Kind of Sorry
Daniel Moore
If rage is a rest stop on the road to forgiveness
maybe that’s where I’ve seen you before:
standing there, next to me, in a choir of fluorescent angels,
unzipping our prayers above porcelain altars,
weeping the liver’s gold lament into midnight’s mouth.
Pausing to sing, we wrapped our hands around that
silver throat, flushing the bluegrass blood away
to someplace safe not sorry. Safe as a trucker’s
skull smudged with a crowbar’s kiss, sorry as
the ecstasy born between drive and reverse.
That kind of safe, that kind of sorry, our
heart’s greasy pistons grinding till dawn,
till finally the last words squawked
like a chicken, headless, hurting and fried.
