you'd hold it close

From then on Katrina 

fiercing up from the get-go 

any girly girl named that. 

Before too, whole phrases 

incisor-sharp: fuck you, you fucking fuck!

all down the front.  New Orleans,

black T-shirt sold on the street for mischief and joy

years back, pre-nightmare.

One has to respect

options, I said, three parts of speech

pressed into service.

Rage on fabric going, gone

redundant.  End of the World, take that!  A thing

to slip over your head.

Surely piles of them mouthing off on carts

to wild up later.  Ever after.  Day of days.

Torn wounded muck of it twisting out to sea,

great biblical sweeps: shipwrecked

porches, car parts in flight, dogs every

bent shape of

howl and horrific, dresser drawers

jet-streamed smithereens

beside warblers battered ancient into

once made of feathers and an ounce of blood.

You.  If you ever wore

such a shirt, you'd hold it close,

a live explosive

under a milder, say, button-down.

And pause.  Oh yeah? whipping

open, getting even.

Like some

Woden or Zeus seized.  Grief

on steroids, if that were a god.

[Marianne Boruch {1950- } 'Once Made of Feathers and an Ounce of Blood', from Eventually One Dreams the Real Thing]