Saturday, August 24, 2019

day NINE HUNDRED and FORTY SEVEN


AFTER THE EARTHQUAKE

A child found a doll
amid rubble.

The pink head was cracked,
black hair singed.

Its glass eyes looked out
through dark lashes.

At the end of the road,
rescue workers were

scouring the wreckage
for bodies, living or dead.

She’d found one
that couldn’t be either.

At least, only on her say-so,
not God’s.

--John Grey

No comments:

Post a Comment