once the last air raid ended
we gathered ourselves, looked left
then entered the main road —
the sun splicing heat into our skin.
an old bus, like a rusty metal lunchbox,
appeared, puttering at the speed of anguish.
from a distance, our march could have been
mistaken for a bloated centipede — sluggish,
out of place. we barreled along outwitting bombs
ordained for stationary targets. Move.
Any- some- where. jump on, stagger off.
the sun will still chase us into our graves.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 21, Issue 1.
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