Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

         Prairie-birthed, moonwashed in amber
this sweltering July night--they plow a path into Riverside Park:
a ragged patchwork of poverty’s colors--farmers
in John Deere caps faded green / their eyes--hoisted lanterns, glowing
hope I blinking fear.
                                  Wives
follow dutifully, two steps behind
in Shoe Barn flats, sensible
as crank-up windows, rolled out like dumplings
in polyester pull-ons & yard-sale tops.

                                  The youngsters:
boys in Black Crowes t-shirts--girls,
in jumpers from The Dollar General Stores cheap as §2.00 corn, baptized
in Bonnie Bell.

                                  True Believers
nod & praise, reach deep into empty overall pockets
as the ushers, pouring sweat--shirts / plastered
to bellies--bid assiduous smiles & extend straw offeratory baskets
tied to broomstick poles--amidst a forest
of wooden folding chairs.
                                                Still coming:

an unending freshet of headlamps
coils onto the grounds: battered Cyclones
& Dusters, no-frills 4-door Fords,
& pickup-after-pickup (aluminium camper-shelled)--the chariots
of the poor.                 The Army of God.                 Under

a worn yellow tent (a canvas firmament) all are greeted
by the fevered pitch of guitars & tambourines, the loll & gag of serpentine
tongues--eyes agog, red & wet, rolling
to Heaven.                                                 The Word,

rising as fremitus--ripped into pieces
of My God--all around me
& through me
& in me:

O, Calvary. O, Calvary!
Onno momse rumaleh, memsah
tumaleh!--Oto neva amsulah,
                                   neva amsulah!

The Word

--catching
like chicken bones /

in a dying man’s throat.