Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsSpring 2012 v11n1
an online journal of literature and the arts
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Road to Canaan

The boys lit the cherry trees on fire. The can knocked against their knees and the hill was steep and the orchard sung with bees, with wind. The boys lived in three green houses down the street. They were eleven, or ten. Their fathers gave them the idea. Their fathers lit the match. It hadn’t rained in weeks. Wind like an arm across their necks. And the cherry trees doused in gasoline burned. And blossoms fell like wings. I followed them, though I was not dressed for it, though my baby was asleep in my arms. And rust flecked were the swords that guarded the garden. And the angels in their dirty fatigues fell down and kissed my bare feet. I undid the stays of my. And my nightgown muddled and ruined. And I was ruined. And we all. The baby was half wolf, half bird. He wept in my arms. The baby’s mouth like an open wound. Green weather on the wind. Land of Milk and Honey. Over the Lake, the stars were clotted cream.  end  

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