i was their undoing

  I sway among the many who had died,

  afraid to break the bones of broken men

  with danger in my hand. The bones now sigh— this land is now a place of littered kin.

  Two days before they’d smiled within sun glare, embracing bodies now stallions of dust.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  I beat the dust as these same people stare sightlessly at my hot life. They will rust

  as all things do that are not life’s white slave.

  They make me wonder if I am truly to blame—

  how can I blink without them who freely gave

  me old wounds: used hands and two right feet like mine.

  I cannot let go of their singed fingers or my singing gun.