I woke to the dead
and was among them.

how this happened,
who did this to us

hatred glosses

and evidence belies.
ourselves but ourselves.

I’d gone to the corner
when the bakery opened,

mouthing regards
to a rare sun, then suddenly–

though not–I remember
nothing else.

I feel around me now
and everyone’s near

who waited for bread
or God one morning.

it’s true I thought at the last
I heard something but didn’t think

to turn, nor catch sight of,
nor glean time to.

Originally published in Kestrel. Copyright © 2019 by Cynthia Hogue. Used with the permission of the poet.