It’s really over & in the end, what left us was our minds
they lifted the soft anchors that kept us tethered to ourselves,
to our lovers, to a new season of dresses that defined
who we were for a day with an accuracy that compelled
a cough, a stutter, a language that spoke with a bite, it came
with a chasm of ills, a system of escape routes, it came
on the release of a patriotic whoop. Our hunger claimed
us, defined us, never enough wars or steak dinners or blame
to fill all the soft parts of us that squelch between the teeth.
Empty bellies wage war & famine raises the hardest hands
& excess is a heavy head over the weakest shoulders that feeds
on the brittle bones that raised it. What I mean is you can
feed them or you can let them starve & folks will do as they do –
sense is a hard-sell pitch & brains are a commodity too.
* this poem is inspired by “Dawn of the Dead” (1978)
LE Francis is a recovering arts journalist writing poetry & fiction of varying length from the rainshadow of the Washington Cascades. Find her online at nocturnical.com.