Saturday, November 16, 2013


Renee Stout


after the shooting, I recognize
I am not in terminal three
I am not dead or bleeding
I haven't been trampled by others panicked & fleeing
I hear no shouts, see no ambulances or IV poles

no, here in terminal five
we sit connected by rows of chairs
fingers & eyes on smudged screens
reading words & hearing voices from people we love
lucky they are not here
not donkeys kept for seventeen years at the bottom of a mine

hours pass before a bald man in a blue shirt
snap fasteners, sleeves rolled
phone in his pocket, asks me:
Are you a hippie?

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