The Innisfree Poetry Journal
by Cynthia Nitz Ris
urging foot after foot.
He pleads with you.
Purple crescent moons
You sit, open your hands,
ask him to imagine a dream
You hold your hands together.
Seventeen years ago locusts spilled their songs
across every summer day. My son would
strip abandoned shells from tree barks
and toss the papery casts into the air
as if jubilation meant this shower.
Locusts trill now as the cat talks back,
hunching at the window sill. TV reporters
push mics toward witnesses at Baghdad’s
latest bombing while I open letters filmed with dust
and watch as the death toll rises in a blink of the cat’s eye.
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