—My form against those at border—
[arbitrary line] [perish] knocking among other refugees —the islands —no one to help —thousands buried by water A butchered animal at my feet. Wolves howl. Soot falls from sky. The rescuers are never prepared. And we, here, amid a failure of images. Scrub a spot whiter than before. Demarcate before there is nothing left. Breach into white sand. The dead ache so.
From Good Stock Strange Blood (Coffee House Press, 2017). Copyright © 2017 by Dawn Lundy Martin. Used with the permission of Coffee House Press.