I watched a
film the other night called The Bad Batch and this poem was inspired by that.
Desert grit
prints
etched in white sand;
grit
chastened on the wind
blows in
from the east side.
This no-man’s
land holds out
a hand spread
like a dinner table,
stained
with ill-gotten flesh.
Say a
prayer before supper time.
Wire cuts
its barb, severed names
curdle sustenance
before it’s milked.
An entrance
taken only once.
Caged
animals can never return.
Copyright
Vickie Johnstone, January 11, 2021
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