The center of the Earth is an iron bullet. You can feel
its jittery echo when the bombs drop their skirts. Murderers
have iron eardrums – this does not explain the moon,
which is the sweeter half-sister, crocheting the stars
into a thin pity blanket for her estranged relatives.

Will you marry me? the underside of a leaf asked
the ground. Funerals have always been
more numerous than weddings. The flowers
know the difference, holding their breath
when the dark figures pass. It is a favor,
sometimes, to give off a lesser light.

This is not the time of sorrow. This is not
your destiny. You are not to bow down
your head. The nape of your neck
is not the pocket of loneliness and desire.
Look – the children are dropping copper coins
in the fountain, the wind will blow
those black jets past your house,
and the machete, as it swings,
swings through the air,
is laughing.

Annalynn Hammond