After the Singing

in U.S. by

Just yesterday I heard my country sing.
The street jangled coins dropped
into tin cups, a brick mural wore
the hijab’s promise and someone
I didn’t know tossed me a smile.

Jagged left coast, beaches bottom right
morph now into an inkblot drip, drip, drip-
ping off the map. Words sink back
in my throat like downtrodden faces,
voiceless leftovers from a feast.

 In the darkness, a baby hoot owl
caught in a trap moans
like the cold that settles
around stooped shoulders
about three weeks after the funeral.

Marsha Owens lives and writes in Richmond, Virginia. She is a happily retired English teacher who made her students read many poems. Her work has been featured at NewVerseNews, Rat’s Ass Review, thewildword, Feminine Collective, Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, and Poets Reading the News.

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