Three Months and Three Days

In a malarial heat
the dogs
are on the leash
pulling and pulling me
through the mud
saddled path. Early morning.
Until you died
I unknowingly
believed I’d always
have a ride
home. And a home.
Spider webs in
the wild berry bushes,
white with dew, look
like trapped parachutes
dropped through the night
in a time of war.
Caught like that you’d
have to knife your
way through the ropes:
suspended, dangling
far from the ground
in a halter cutting
into your arm pits.
There’s no ride home
from this, you have
to find your own way.

 

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