Spreadeagle

L’Aquila. 6th April, 2009.

From deep within virgin morning’s slumber,
Comes the rumpus, the rumble of
A belly laugh.

She shudders, though not in bliss.
Cobbled legs part, prised by the punch
Of fist here, there an elbow.

Then at her crux, the hardest blow.
Ruffled and rising, her plumage-
Her duomo, her
S. Maria de Collemagio-
is plucked.

Children of fallen masonry,
Babies of broken windows,
Born to her.
Her arches, her aspes,
Her vaults are collapsing.

She flaps but the wind is weighed down
As the whipping of the ground
Cracks. She does not fly.

Outside are the insides and
Onto the streets,
She bleeds, from the soft
Underside of her belly.

The ground stills. But soon
Again it will throb. Broken bells
Will try to ring.
She won’t fly. She is wingless.