December 5, 2008

On tv we saw a woman living
with her kids in a tin slum.

She showed the camera man
an open stove, a hairbrush
on a box that was her bedside table.

Along one wall, dirty water trickled
around bullet holes, ticking,

limned by the reporter’s voice-over.
How we like to focus on what’s close up.

We don’t even know where the bullets go—

through cities and forests, clean
into the open air.

by Sarah J. Sloat

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  1. Laura Ring
    December 7, 2008 at 12:53 am

    A stunning piece, beautifully read. Thanks.

  2. December 7, 2008 at 4:29 am

    Very salutary, the thinking that your verse inspires.

  3. Liz
    December 10, 2008 at 1:11 am

    Love what happens here and how this poem brings the reader (well, this reader for sure : )) there…congrats, Sarah.

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