Edited by Blas Falconer | Barry Kitterman | Amy Wright
Where My Fathers Died
When forced to imagine
I invent a vacant beauty. A stone wall,
an orchard gone wild.
Limbs bent like horses’ necks,
careful and stubborn.
Fruit like their mouths twisting for grass.
The wind comes up from an unseen river
and the grasses rub against each other like a man’s hands
when he is searching for something to say.
So. Just that precisely, a shot
rings out and this emptiness is stilled.