by Maximilian Bowden
Artwork, “Bustle” by Holly Harris
Framed by a window,
Bright eyes cast far away,
She sits wistfully,
Contents of her trunk
Strewn across the floor.
The guttural scribblings of
A hundred hunched minotaurs
Up in arms, demanding wings
OR
Some familiar stain
To which fingers wander
When distant thoughts bubble
OR
Secret police files
Detailing movement
In enemy camps
‘I long for a world
Where the trees don’t grasp
So desperately
At the world above
And their branches sing
A less mournful tune’
The roar of the sea
Cold spray on eager faces
Heavy clouds darkening
Twisted hopeful smiles.
News would come today,
Something sinister
Brewing hungrily
On the continent.
And, yet, by the window
There is nothing left.
Those eyes can only watch
As we eat ourselves and
Distant memories burn,
Gently liberated,
By the hollow trunk’s screams
