Carrie

 Carrie

If it is the manner of your leaving,

if nothing in your life becomes you more,

then Carrie doesn’t live here anymore.

 

Across the water, jets strafe land,

inky fingers smear subterranean plans,

while keys are turned by iron hands.

 

Another skyward salvo wheels its weary way —

shall we live another day

if the watching world goes ballistic?

 

Yet if you ripped skulls apart

to find her thumbprints on the heart

of this torn world,

then Carrie doesn’t live here anymore.

 

Because it is the same for us all.

In bunkers, we see exits, crawl

with hands out for pocket change,

then shrug, claim

we chose the moment, set the terms —

but Carrie’s insides burn.

 

Now, her podium come round at last,

she slouches certain for the steps,

bilious-hearted, no regrets,

her sharpened teeth on edge.

She commands the Christian congregation

with words deaf to other nations,

voices departure, closed doors,

for Carrie doesn’t live here anymore.

 

She speaks of a slighted spouse,

how he had to leave the house —

a scandal with Jesus’ sandals,

skateboards, and the sin of wrath.

 

With tremulous voice she denies sloth,

how hard it is to raise a child,

how hard to raise a smile

nursing a stabbed back, while all the while

missiles fall like hail and farewell.

 

So now, you see, it’s plain to tell

that Carrie doesn’t live here anymore -

and if she left a forwarding address,

would they even raise a breath?