I'm honored (and fortunate) to have my poem, "A City like a Dead Man," in Zingara Poetry Review this morning.
A City like a Dead Man
I dreamed our city’s slender attitude,
of ruined moonlight
in the bombs. The dreamer’s femur is
the squeaky wheel. If love could only speak
and never hear, she said
between the bombs. I loved her
safe route to mercy. Lyme disease
and bombs had similar inaccuracies. On foot
she wandered through
pretentious fire. You wouldn’t think to
look at death, she said
at night, the doctor who delivered it
was darkness. As fever struck the garbage
dump, I dreamt I was her Carthage.