Memorial Day Night
it is tonight
an ambling gale most serious
chewing through orchard husk
to focus the locusts shrieking
themselves lost but by their own
skittish clamor
and crepuscular chorus
hollow for the streaming stars
now see the girl emerge
who is all of fourteen years
blonde and blue
with red ribbons tied
from the heart of the wood
rich with thickened entanglements
of moss and wolfen things
and her wicker woven basket
spilling cherries on the meadow
next to a naked orchard
she rests there tonight
exhausted from childbirth
to hear the song of the wolves
as they feast on placenta
in the morning she wakes
at dawn’s early light
and calls to the orchard
that the meadow has blossomed
blood-red poppies
and whispers a prayer
for her step-father’s son
and all those lost to the howl
and all those condemned
by the preacher’s daughter
through decades of slaughter.
5/27/19
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