Poetry, Terri McCord
as the moon becomes a poultice
as we wait for the state
of the union
the national address
the sky that literally burns
every night
witch hunts were real
if witch hunts were real
the subjunctive, the wish clause
the gouge in the side
Have you ever heard a silencer?
have you ever seen
a shot body
or a state of ruin
Are we all anachronisms?
are the fires a hoax
the starving children merely a tale
the people who die first from no care
from lack of water, usually have three days,
rubbled debris a computer-generated trick
And these irises in the garden, white yet ephemeral,
small ghosts that put in an appearance
annually, surely, they are real?
Terri McCord is a visual artist as well, loves animals, and nature. Her latest collection is The Beauts. She has work forthcoming in Connecticut River Review, North Dakota Quarterly, and Thimble.
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