Rest, Peace
by Jennifer Campbell
When the sun drops
in wait and the shop doors
are locked, fleshy and irreverent
the dead flood the streets
and in their wake
any misconception
that this generation
hasn’t had a defining moment
is consumed. They jostle
for position, tattered flags
catching and pirouetting in moonlight.
Arms snag on mailboxes
gates trap heroes’ toes.
The ceremony proceeds for those
who know where to look
and the sibilant call grows
but, still, a mother can’t cry too loud
for fear of waking the president.
The eyes’ backlights
will burn out by dawn
the chaos will slow—myriad,
minute tufts of grass and pebbles
will sink back into place.
The best time to be okay with choices
is before the dawn breaks, so
America, turn your fear to steel.
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