1151

I heard the trees
marching in two step
up and down the cobblestone
streets

I heard the saws
spin to life in the slim
hands of wild eyed
men

I tasted thick
ash when they were burnt
down, gasping while my grandmother
said
“that’s hard proof”

I ate a fly
kept in my brother’s jar,
one he had named
kept precious and hidden
beside his books

I heard him weep
and say
“I don’t know when anything
feels wrong”