In the country of grief

It is midsummer, or the time
just before rain.

All day workers dig in the soil
to set a french drain down.

As they turn stones aside,
worms writhe in a frenzy of light.

Meanwhile in the country of grief
writers and scholars begin

to draft petitions, wondering
how soon they might have to go

into hiding. A woman has just
been elected vice president,

but she and all other women
are told they should expect

to be catcalled and shamed
in public. In the country

of grief, the trains fill
and fill all night

with desperate pedestrians.
Nameless bodies begin

to turn up in the fields
at dawn. Such sovereignty

feels both familiar and
shockingly new. Fleeing

before the impending storm,
small creatures run blind

into ditches and traps.
Thunderclouds spit

like loudmouths with no
regard for law or protocol.


In response to Via Negativa: Sad times.

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