Poetry by Michelle Correll

Tolstoy’s midnight visions of
San Francisco’s flowered guns
appear, when pressing my fingers into
your bulletproof vest,
darkly shielded chest.

Lead blooming heartbeats, that
stain gun powdered lips,
project me against sheet metal walls.
While bracing myself in defiant expectation,
I arch my back to angle my
chin and brow. Singing our language
of disillusionment.

With bombs caving the ceiling,
still, we remain. Locked in
our violence of feeling,
violent restrain.