I am the jar which contains
war. Placed on the summit
collecting the last rain water
of inaudible hollowness and sleep.
An internally controlled whatever: whatever says, whatever
suffering does, whatever
I cool becomes holy.
Radiant where the radius disintegrates.
I go far remaining on Mount Sinjar— confetti obliquely
descending and rising
after new ascension.
The pieces expose so many colors: emerald, gold, one after
another— blue; chaos, collusion, one after another— plum.
I count backwards to one. I’m the temple on the summit. I trap none.
About the Poet
Lou Heron is a graduate of St. John’s College. She lives in Chicago and works in administration for a university. Her work has appeared in the Columbia Poetry Review, Epigraph Magazine, and The Columbia Review.