Growing Stories
By Ann Gong
Originally Appearing in Issue #4
Category: Poetry
“When bombs fall into a field of wheat,
it smells like a freshly mowed lawn.”
He looks through me,
as if he’s hidden himself somewhere
deep inside.
His voice reminds me of when
geese pass overhead, sliding between
the sheets of crisp cut autumn air
like black ants falling out of formation
or shifting lines of thought.
If I could,
I would add myself to end
of the V’s left leg
and follow the ghosts of his memories
into his one-sided smile.
