Last Sunday I heard a mysterious crash -
An angel's hallelujah of bullhorn brass
Louder than the helicopters
That buzz my insignificant house.
It knocked me down,
This breathy sound.
Unlatched my hinges, unhooked my skin as if I were a purse,
Exposing the red velvet of my skin of my intimate rubble:
Spider lace of veins, buttons and pleats of my brain,
Zipper of my crooked spine.
Barely a sentence,
No less than a song,
The word was yes, then it was aum,
Then it became an ocean, where I fell in -
- by Tracy DeBrincat
from my university UNC Charlotte's literary magazine Sanskrit.
note about the poet:
Tracy DeBrincat is a freelance advertising consultant in the entertainment industry. Her first novel manuscript, Every Porpoise Under Heaven, received the 1996 Washington Award for Fiction, and her story, Troglodyte, was chosen as the second runner up for the 2007 Chicago Literary Awards.
An angel's hallelujah of bullhorn brass
Louder than the helicopters
That buzz my insignificant house.
It knocked me down,
This breathy sound.
Unlatched my hinges, unhooked my skin as if I were a purse,
Exposing the red velvet of my skin of my intimate rubble:
Spider lace of veins, buttons and pleats of my brain,
Zipper of my crooked spine.
Barely a sentence,
No less than a song,
The word was yes, then it was aum,
Then it became an ocean, where I fell in -
- by Tracy DeBrincat
from my university UNC Charlotte's literary magazine Sanskrit.
note about the poet:
Tracy DeBrincat is a freelance advertising consultant in the entertainment industry. Her first novel manuscript, Every Porpoise Under Heaven, received the 1996 Washington Award for Fiction, and her story, Troglodyte, was chosen as the second runner up for the 2007 Chicago Literary Awards.
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