two poems for the day

(originally published in Open Heart Forgery, I think, and possibly on Facebook)

Wounding Ground

by Anna Quon

At the wounding ground,

wild poppies grow,


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.


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..

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