Every Death Is Magic from the Enemy to Be Avenged
My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?
When fever burned the last light out of my daughter’s eyes,
I swore to find and kill the ones to blame. Men
must mount the long boat in the dark with spears.
At dawn, where the flowering spicebush hid my scent,
I crouched. A young wife, newborn slung across her chest,
came first for springwater. She stooped. My god,
for vengeance, spoke her secret name inside my ear. Her god
stepped back with no scream, his right hand at his mouth,
the knuckles clenched between the pointed teeth.
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Comments about this poem (Every Death Is Magic from the Enemy to Be Avenged by Brooks Haxton )
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