That Will Make You Go Blind, by Mary MacMillan

2010 James Larkin Pearson Contest, Honorable Mention

That Will Make You Go Blind
by Mary MacMillan

Night stole
the dawn, or so they said.
Claimed it was burgled and curled
away until it burned
through as a harsh, fang-shaped glare wearing
a sartorial hue. Flaring,
sinister, bent on snaking
into the fields to upend
every sacred cow
and steal the milk.

They wore panic as
righteousness clothed in gray
armpits damp with the effort of burying
landmines, erecting barricades. Status
quo spilled from their bulging
suit pockets. In the dark they could not see
that light has its own unstillable
language.

When the Hummers and Kevlar failed them,
they threw their thirsting, stiff bodies down the last ditch
effort not to see they had stolen themselves.
Suffused, exposed,
about to eat their young,
they went hoarse chanting to the sun,
“You lie.”

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