The Wall Artists of Pripyat
Gulag chasers nowadays pick the scab of 1986, instead; a scab that won’t heal for twenty thousand years.
Smashed windows stare blindly, wind mourns through the rusted ferris wheel spokes, doors swing open, untouched for a thousand years.
Even the sun shuns Pripyat.
We’re the forgotten, the weeping, marking our endowment on our town’s walls.
I shake the can and spray my truth: We were born in your world but you will die in ours
Smithy for a Martyr
Jeanne d’Agneau stared into the forge. ‘But why?’
Her father hammered and tempered, leaning over the sword with intimate connection.
Clang! Clang!
Sweat from his brow fell onto the blade.
‘We’re in the business of death, ma petite.’
‘But Papa, you give so much of yourself to war!’
‘A little bit, Jeanne.’
Drip…Another sword finished.
Ten years hence she took over.
Clang!
Flames dripped from her onto the blade.
Papa, j’ai froid… j’ai froid…