quiet, like smoke
lightning stabs her concrete slab now laid bare her
secrets floating through naked trees behind her once
home then swirling rubble a wooden spoon a scrap
rag of velvet curtain carnelian like the blood of her
son when missing three verminous days of salt water
soaked blueberry muffin and water moccasins
coiled in fruit baskets poisonous as the wicked
witch of the wind whipping the sea into vengeful
surge she turns and in her eyes I see reflected the
gulf, now quiet, like smokecopyright 2007 Leslie Wilson
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Barnwood magazine
Contents 07