a year since
the god of
starving dogs
the person i was
left behind like
so much
shed skin
the person i am
content to sit by
this second story
window
at twilight
willing to believe
the ovens will
never be fired up
again
and next door
a baby cries
or maybe a mother
and two days ago
the first body
of the season
was pulled from
the river and
named
a small moment
buried beneath
centuries of
brutality but it
stays with me
whatever can’t be
forgotten
worried to death
instead
