Roy Marshall
Hayride
I feel like a refugee, my friend says harmlessly
as we lean on the bucking trailer side behind
the sliding tractor.
I say nothing, but imagine a paralysis
brought on by shock, the shadow of fear
falling across these scattered bales
as our children sit, jittery and wired
to the scroll of scouring jets, while behind us,
everything burns.
Page(s) 19
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