SCALD FREEZE

 

The harvest field went blue.

 

Down the furrows, a storm

of soldiers, leaving the green to die.

 

The fields gave up shapes

of women and men in flight

or bending, crying out,

losing as they

themselves became loss.

 

Some did scatter faster,

a singe of impulse

away from house-sharding,

from the wreckage of barns

into hiding, a frigid night.

 

Thoughts of food harshly bright,

imagined bread like

wedges of light falling.

 

About the living sprung up

buds of terror, berries of ash.

 

 

Susanna Brougham has poetry published in Gettysburg Review, Denver Quarterly, Massachusetts Review, Cincinnati Review, Tampa Review, and others. Her writing has also appeared on Poetry Daily.

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