Death had no edge then. We crumpled exquisitely in well-tended grass
and dandelions and lay still as silverware in a closed drawer. Our stick rifles and willow switch swords
strewn about us.
The smelter shift whistle
cried over us. Our fathers at work.
Someone’s fuzzy dog
licked the fallen general. A car honked
from Main Street.
Lunchtime.
At once, we rose from the
dead and ran home for macaroni and cheese.
--Mitchell
Hegman
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