poetry book

April. And the air dry

As the shoulders of a water buffalo.

Grasshoppers scratch at the dirt,

rub their wings with thin legs

flaring out in front of the soldiers

in low arcing flights, wings a blur.

The soldiers don’t notice anymore,

seeing only the wreckage of the streets,

bodies draped with sheets, and the sun,

how bright it is, how hard and flat and white.

It will take many nails from the coffinmakers

to shut out this light, which reflects off everything:

the calloused feet of the dead, their bony hands, 

their pale foreheads so cold, brilliant in the sun.

—Brian Turner