“In the City of No Children” by Michael Schmeltzer
In the City of No Children
Her open palm —
a map of panic.
Beneath the surface a sewer of nerves
fevers the flesh. Flushed,
the mother wipes her forehead
and calls out the name
of her daughter.
The name
of her daughter
echoes like leather
to a slaughtered cow.
~
The mother claws
the middle of her palm
until blood like a divination
guides her onward.
A thin dog tugs on a scarf. The black cloth
rips, mimics
the sound of a struck match.
Delirious, the mother spins
as if the sound of a fire lit
were the voice
of her child
rising from the wreckage.
Photo Credit: Staff