By Alice Friman

Red-tagged around the middle,
four diagonal trees.
Dead men walking.  Blood
on the lintel.  The red decree
of who's next.

When I was seven I was sure
if I waved my arms
hard enough, if I ran
with the wind urging me,
pressing at my back,
I could fly.

For all I know
the wind only wanted to touch
Lovingly.  The way all summer
it pets the leaves
forever quivering
and whispering about it
among themselves. 

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