Apocalyptic poems, posted every m-f.


they write a rule, in our town
that babies born broken are pressed into pillows
like flowers between the pages of books,
preserved pretty before their lives might wilt them

when the mayor’s first daughter arrives in this world,
she does so with the shadow of somewhere else
pockmarked across her face,
touched by devil or devilry, broken in either case

and he can’t help but lose it,
flood his face with salt water, flood the makeshift hospital with screams
for his daughter, but not just for his daughter
for the sudden realization of his monstrosity –
of what he’d put so many other parents through,
of what he’d done to those babies born broken

we watch him bite his lip bloody
as she wobbles those little fists in the air once more,
dying quietly under the straw-stuffed pillow


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