Requiem for 2022
A free verse poem
Published in
Mar 23, 2022
The world’s sun presses a dainty hand
to her eyes, as dizzy planets
spin around her, endless loops
of time and progress — a marching
war machine beats on, drunk
on blood and fear and the sound
of grinding gears,
while, in the nursery
of reckoning, the
graces slumber,
little sticky thumbs
stuck in sucking mouths.
Meanwhile, the dead
get no deader, but the
living sure do.
Author’s note: this poem is in response to Christine Graves’s Mixed Messages prompt from her collection of Weekly Prompts March 19–25.
