Untitled 7

 

Folded three hundred dollar damascus

slipped,

touched for a moment

a calloused palm

rested

finally

against bone

 

She didn’t notice

she cut strawberries,

cubed cantaloupe

mixed the brightly colored summer treats

careful

not to bruise them.

 

Faintly,

firecrackers.

black cats

bottle rockets

charred paper bits

announce the holiday

tiny bombs

burst the air

She does not blink

 

Home,

a thousand miles from

eyes that will not meet hers,

whose palms, sweaty with guilt

press bills into her own

paw furtively,

Hope long abandoned to

echo silently in hungry mouths

wrapped in blankets

thrown in dumpsters

It is independence day

It is never independence day

 

 

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