I walked through the trees, mourning. #Poetry

I looked brightness in the eye.
The iron, the tang of metal & rust.
I held a penny
on my tongue.
The taste shocked me,
its brown-gold sweet.
I roamed the field
angry & burned
asking bitter questions of a gun.
Dance is a body’s refusal
to die. But, oh, your gone hair.
The flame & orange flare.
Our forms, our least known selves —
barrel, sugar, & stench.
Your pleas, looped in writing,
the stutter of a body’s
broken grammar.


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