The hope a mooncalf follows
is sacrifice for slaughter,
and yet the wings of swallows
still skip across the water. 

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I fingered the bone, and traced
where the axe had landed,
imagining the face
of the girl, her life abandoned
by the midnight sky.
So I placed an aster
in her tiny skull
where a glimmering eye
had been, and then I asked her
to please forgive us all.
First appeared in CounterPunch
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© by Leo Yankevich