(1944/2018)
I woke to the dead
and was among them.
how this happened,
who did this to us
unaccountably
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.