I walked through the trees, mourning.

I looked brightness in the eye. The iron, the tang of metal & rust. I held a penny on my tongue. The taste shocked me, its brown-gold sweet. I roamed the field angry & burned asking bitter questions of a gun. Dance is a body’s refusal to die. But, oh, your gone hair. The flame & orange flare. Our forms, our least known selves — barrel, sugar, & stench. Your pleas, looped in writing, the stutter of a body’s broken grammar.