If Constellations Were Dust by Zac Furlough
An idyllic dark rose overhead
like the one from the blankets that roofed
the forts my sister and I constructed
in our childhood
living room. In our castles
we were shielded from the household law
of our mother, who was in turn
quarantined by a quaint, white neighborhood where the paperboy
refused to let his route conflict with Sunday school
and where shotguns
were porch décor. Outside,
flags were often seen at half-mast, though I never knew
exactly why. We weren’t told about gunshots in schools
or planes, buildings, smoke, suicide – acknowledgement
would induce change.
Tonight, in the city
where I’ve spent days with pad and pen, molesting scripture,
dragging nails across the proverbial chalkboard,
the warm stars rain light over my neck and shoulders,
not easily cast away by an extra coat or
the soft touch of my wife. Even as I walk the streets
bathed in neon glows and modern-blue headlights,
my skin
is the pale reflection of atrocity.
Zac Furlough is a graduate student at Pacific University, studying for an MFA in Writing. He lives in Orlando, FL with his fiancé and teaches high school English.
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