After the Firing Squad

It was only after the shots were fired death became him
or he became death…it did not matter, for he could see
the alluvium his body made against the living
he could see that tenderness spread topographically
across the landscape, dense in some places, sparse in others

Ghosts fly by dead reckoning, finding it difficult to
navigate the night, and so it was there, atop the ice,
slow to rest as memory became him or he became
memory…it did not matter, for he could recall with
elephant precision the lifetime-ago trip up north

Father talking through that half-moon smile as he discovered
the land of ice beneath his boy-sized feet, the place of no
tenderness, except for his father—once there—his pitch-black
laugh still echoing out across mountains of frozen night

 


Torre Freeman is going back to school to pursue an MFA in Poetry. This is her first published work.


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