Summer in St. Louis

The words:

If my revelation of Revelations is bona fide truth

then it surely means there really are seven trumpets

seven angels. 

stationed at each corner of our earth.

St. Louis trumpets aren’t made of ram’s horn like Moses

but I know they’re just as loud. 

And I know you hear us. 

And I know they’ve always heard us.

When the first trumpet sounded in the streets 

our shoulders became the ox that hoists loads twice its weight.

Pavement melted into torrid grains of sand that wedged itself into the

grooves of our sneakers whiter than the west side 

with us or don’t, but know that summer

belongs to the ones who survived the heat, with heat

tucked into  belt loops or with prayed-on knees  

of my grandmother and yours. 

Beat the heat always meant other things in the summertime

those pops in July made us jump differently

because our hearts thump to the rhythm of “make it home

safely.”

Soundly.

My friends want to sleep soundly.

For the first time summer gave peace coalesced with the heat.

This time we reconvened 

not a beat missed and our smiles had fibers

from the veils that covered our lips for the longest

year of our time in this dimension.

If my revelation of Revelations is bona fide truth

then it surely means there really are seven trumpets

seven angles

stationed at each corner of our earth.

And I know you hear us. 

And I know they’ve always heard us.