Cate McGowan

DARK KNOTS

Our consonants tilled the dry fields
with trenches and then furrowed hope,
and when we screamed, when they mourned,
we all placed pebbles on his tombstone.

Out on the pitch, a vixen carried her kits,
so stealthy, those silhouettes, dark knotted
like unblown roses. I dreamt we slept. We
didn’t. At two o’clock, the coroner arrived.

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