Suppose
by Janice Krasselt Tatter


I've worked on a poem all day,
stars hurl out of constellations,
and the moon backs away
as if the sky was a premonition.
Scars melt away with forgiveness
and words finally fall into place
like bruises that rise to the surface.
Shadows over souls disappear
and women no longer cower in corners.
Fists open, hands learn to bless.
Snapped bones fuse like whole words
and no one knows the darkness of pain
as the moon hides itself behind clouds,
and blood surges in blessed peace.






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