these things that come to me in dreams, by pd lyons


we came upon them by stealth
a group of children play with sticks and  rags like flags
a half dozen ponies hobbled in high grass
a thin trail of smoke rises through cold air like a prayer
and we antitheses of blessings readied our weapons

I saw her
silent to death
her child
no more than four
open
ribbons before
her

burning
anger
bullet
met
that moment stopped in violence
never ends

DSC_3191from “the bluebook poems” ruff

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