As night fell, we tried to duck
Under it. My stepmother in her
Dress of curtains, her child
Playing copycat with an old man’s
Cries for help.
“I’m afraid,” he’d say, and a
Little voice would tease him back.
The night pressed us into the
Trench, mud blackening our glasses.
All of the crops were crushed,
And the pond was shot and left for dead.
Stars burst like flak overhead.
“I’m dying,” the old man cried.
“I’m dying,” teased the child.
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