Morning [original]


I woke, terrified, at the tumult of riots
and blood flowing through these once-quiet fields
and gallows
and guillotines erected in squares
which never yet had seen an execution.

The scorched earth left
you gutted as a bisected sow
on fiesta morning–
supine on the wood  bench, spine
dangling like a braid of china filaments.

Dad tucked his tail and ran;
Octavio hid with the spooked hooves
in the sugar cane.  The perpetrators garroted our carabao
and any hope for a harvest
bountiful enough to bring mom back.

Now the farm is a handful of dust.




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