Alison Brackenbury
It Is
It is the shimmer of cut glass
It is the tiny drums of blood
It is the women at the school
Who sit to watch their children play.
The voices purr, and yet I hear
Claws sharpen on the polished wood,
Knives click in hide bags. In the car
The bomb coughs in the shining wire.
The paths are swept, red asters glow
The park is neat. But I tell you
If it is true, this is not kind;
If this is kind, it is not true.
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