with whiskey-mark necks. Like a scream of darts
found them in the sanctuary’s locked basement
in the dark. One night, they drew it—the town
they dreamt of, fences yellowed, clouds like the static
on the tv. Their only light. Knowing any other
would wake one’s sleeping sister, her body
in the corner of the room’s mouth. Faithful,
moving only as God does. One night
in a symphony of nights. And He likes us
until he doesn’t. Like trees struck by lightning,
we aren’t visible until we’re on fire. Everything
depreciates like this once it’s been said. Unless
it is overheard. Unless it is shot in flight.
Previously appeared in Crazyhorse
63