Entering the village at dusk,
on foot, hungry.
The long, hollow street.
A smell of spice and oil.
A torn curtain, door ajar. Invited in,
we sat on the floor.
Behind veils, the daughters,
rifles unslung, the sons,
spoke to us of drums, drought,
Lincoln.
We painted their walls with red.
We took with us the veils and rifles.
We tore down the moon and the sky.
1 comment:
This is one of your better efforts, Purslane.
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