Aurora Borealis ( Poem)
Boston’s RT 93 artery filled with racing
metallic cells, with nucleus of human cargo.
Rumbling against asphalt and clanking bridge straps
guardrail rib cage.
Corralled into the concrete esophagus,
where muzzle is assaulted by
the flatulent’s of the cells.
A rolling crawl expels, to mortar and steel constellations
navigating the way to the cradle of my youth.
An outlined dot-to-dot picture strung together, like the lace of my shoe.
Binding me to people and places that whittled and carved my beginnings.
The triple decker city tenement with postage size dirt yard;
with its file cabinet porches, that hold each families stories and secrets.
Hide beneath the file stacks prison slats*, escape the branding of reject for
failing to adorn the prescribed road.
Fledgling pushed from the nest; I fly along RT 93.
Regurgitated through concrete esophagus to,
Astrological constellations and land in the cradling valley.
Where I tried on the nebula called wife.
Continued to burn brightly,
But he became the black hole.
Blind to my colors and sucked in the
Hearts and minds of our starlets ‘til
They were empty space.
Become a fledgling again,
for rejecting perversion’s prescription;
collecting the pieces of me that have always been
Attempting to keep me from
being the aurora borealis
© 2013 Poem and Photo Robin M Nash
*prison slates: the wood slates around the bottom of a porch