Christopher Janigian: Bastille Day

Trees bend here. 

Then venom spills into 

thick canals— 

they harbor 

lifeless barges. Men blow 

ghosts, burn lung—hands run 

through hair. The throat 

grows a rose—blooming blood 

by the villa. Words 

vein, roll from 

someone’s tongue. Bent 

god: flash by 

with your bullet vest. 

Do not watch this 

terrible sky— 

lightning cracks it 

with yellow saw-teeth. It is not 

for you. The dark-

skinned man stands, rises 

to popular flux: locked 

hands, perfect soldiers. Eye 

contact costs a fortune. Black-

eyed god: watch the high 

wheel of bone. 

O, stone and river. This place 

swells with soldiers. Again 

shadows swarm the streets: police 

in bombshell suits spit 

at helmeted heads, 

lazy tongues. We pass one 

mouth I will match: 

the dead sphinx. I will stare 

into the numb umbrella of a hood.

Christopher Janigian is a senior at Brown University concentrating in Literary Arts and English Literature. 

This poem has previously appeared in Issue VII, Fall 2012 of The Round, a Brown University literary publication.