Michael Prihoda


3

i write
the sky.

a critic
of exhaustion,

the army
provides no peace

though ink
trouble the blood.



4

a design
of obligation,

her hand
upon the truth

of longing.
“know my body

is a promise.”
there are clouds

in lightless
sky.

the desolation fires
are ill tended,

my limb
of morning light.



5

more bullets…

…twisted river

vulture perched on chest…

               a musket was so violently thrashed



7

a handful of eye                                  under
                                                                            scalp.

                                                                            away,

                                              the                         tearing

                                              cloth.

                a newborn                            sigh

                                              filling                     with           rock.


unfurled                                                widening

                a fragment

                               of fist.




Michael Prihoda writes: "These poems are redactions from Geraldine Brooks' March, and the page the text comes from is the title of each poem.
 
 
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