Mark J. Mitchell

She looks up to see

a bathtub dangling

three floors up

from a three-walled building.

Blue pipes leading

nowhere in gray air.

Bodies, old and young,

scatter the ground.

She wants to pray

but she knows this one thing:

All the guardian angels

have fled this war zone.

First,

worship water with fire

in your quiet kitchen.

Then

take the red gifts of earth

kissed black by flames—

bow

before crushing them to fine dust

while fire takes to water.

Fold

brown paper to a precise cone

to hold your offering, safe.

When

water smiles, just before she sings,

give her to perfect black dust.

Drink

and wake up.