Ken Meisel

Grand River Avenue, Detroit Riots, 1967
 
Sometimes in a young mind there are rabbits sniffing pine cones
and wet grass in the morning. The world is an aural landscape
of meditative beauty. In my young mind I'm driving with my father.
I'm not sure where in the hell we're going. It is July, 1967.
And there is smoke billowing out of roof tops. Army vehicles,
which look like big violent bugs, churn forward down the streets.
I'm told to duck down in the station wagon. I'm told there could be
sniper fire. My young head could be blown apart like milkweed.
So I grip the back of the seat with my strong arms like I'm hugging
the side of a wall for protection. My stomach, which is full of acid
and stones, tightens. My father looks ahead as if sniffing down
a long corridor to a doorway, something golden and light.
I'm guessing he's looking straight into Heaven, for I am Catholic,
and I can't guess ahead to anything else. Nothing but white light.
And there are angels, big weeping winged things caressing
the burning cars exploded down along the side streets. Some angels
genuflect. Some blow saxophones or trumpets and they throw
them down on the street loudly. And it sounds like wailing or crying,
as if all of Heaven's gate had fallen like glass over us. Then I peek up,
see the black men running away. Man, some of them run into store
fronts with no glass remaining. And their faces are terrified ripped pieces
of rubber. And the police cars race forward after them. Fire trucks
roar down the road and blow hoses full of water all over them.
Someone calls them devils but it sure isn't my father, for his heart
is as wobbly as a bowl of milk and he loves them. And the angels,
which are large insects with beating wings and wailing faces that resemble
sun flowers bursting apart, race and swoop down on us. And one
of them cradles the window of the car like a blanket, a large bursting mouth
of howling. And he yells at me you will be named John one day
and you will tell of the apocalypse here. And every story you tell will
be true. And bewildering. For you fear all this and it breaks your heart.

*Also appears in Beautiful Rust (Bottom Dog Press )

Also from Ken Meisel:
The City is a Woman
The Wind Blowing Down Gratiot Avenue

Contributor Bio

Ken Meisel is a poet & psychotherapist from the Detroit area with publication credits that include Spillway, Cream City Review, Concho River Review, Free Lunch, Sulphur River Literary Review, Rattle, River Oak Review, Byrant Literary Review, Soundings East, and Lake Effect. Rattle magazine chose one of his poems for their 'best of' collection, published in 2006. River Oak Review poetry editor Lance Wilcox wrote a comprehensive review of Ken Meisel's first three books of poetry. It was published in their summer 2007 issue. Ken Meisel is the author of three poetry collections. They are Sometimes the Wind (March Street Press, 2002), Before Exiting (Pure Heart Press, 2006) and Just Listening (Pure Heart Press, 2007). The chapbook version of Just Listening won the 2005 Swan Duckling chapbook contest.  Bottom Dog Press accepted his manuscript, Beautiful Rust for a fall 2009 publication.