By Anna Harberger
The land seemed to be green and bleeding
when it circled our chariot.
Arms, legs extended
as to caress the steaming gray
carved out by father and son.
I felt guilty
when the August wind rocked the spears, arrows, swords
that pierced her back,
and when I noticed
her blood was blackened brown, and
began clotting at the base of her wounds—
hidden, though, amidst the verdant sea.
It only ever happened once.
The two of us.
Chaos and crying to taste
the muffled hymn of the Pacific.