POETRY
By Kyle D. Craig
If anything
must fall
on us, let it
be morning.
Tonight’s
stories strike
like knives
through
thick bone.
I still cannot
name half
the places
where bombs
knelt last night.
I know
not everyone
has access
to ocean views,
for many
no forest waits
to wander
through, not
a single sycamore
from which
to draw
shade. I crave
smaller news:
a chickadee
found a feeder.
An old woman
lifted her bow
to the cello.
A black lab
lying
motionless
in the median
was just
a shredded
tire.
This story originally appeared in Stonecoast Review Issue 18.
Photo by Tim Mossholder.