SEPTEMBER SENTENCE

Uncut corn in the furrows,
rubble of vultures tossed on the sky,
caravans fleeing:
each day as relentless as a plough pushing them
to the edge of a field, edge of a mountain,
to the brink of this processed, cleansed,
mop-the-blood-off-the-decks world
where in summer soldiers arrived
with a mind full of nails
and hands to craft a hole for most of a village,
then pound the ground shut.

k a t h e r i n e   s o n i a t
b l a c k s b u r g ,   v i r g i n i a

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