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The Political Issue
Vol. 4 Issue 2
In the thicket
by Angelique Gehring
I sat
mouth gaping, I drank the moon
each cell I owned, held its cup
upwards for the pour
In toast the exclaimed "Vraiment!"
as to the questioning of
freedom now.
In the field
drunk in sadness,
a waxen coat of determination
being my only breastplate
Behold but not the beasts howl
this eve
. . . All my winged blessers Yelp
and squeal
And I feel all this, and numb.
When was the last time I died?
The stopping of thump,
the glazing of sight,
the stolen whisps.
By define, seven funerals were needed.
each casket buried not the six feet.
But close enough to smell the rot
And to touch the petals they fertilized.