(originally published in Open Heart Forgery, I think, and possibly on Facebook)
Wounding Ground
by Anna Quon
At the wounding ground,
wild poppies grow,
translucent,
above landmines
dug in years ago
like precious tubers.
The ghosts of hands and feet
scatter like salt
over the wounding ground.
No one remembers now
who is to blame for the one-legged child,
the blind dog, the bloody stump.
It was so long ago
that people hated one another.
the past is wispy as a cloud
over the wounding ground.
Warships
by Anna Quon
Warships are the colour of brains,
Without their convoluted beauty
Their decks are gritty as asphalt
Washed grey as cloud-covered sea
Nothing sticks. Not life, not dirt
Not death. Nothing here
Is made for people; even blood
Disappears, even sunlight..
annaquon 