After Camille T. Dungy

The smell of catastrophe descends like age.
A year for danger, chemical reek, claws, tension.
This year is pressure–

rending raw stone to crystal.
Our tongues catch
on thin sounds, semaphores of truth.

The body’s greed will be tested,
our blistered egos
inundated with palliatives.
Even angels suffer.

This is the year of teeth:
pointed, sharp-edged honesty,
all the frankness of a bone saw.