Nutshells on patched linoleum,
cracks skipped over
on the long sidewalk home,
hide-and-go-seek game
we stopped counting.
Still sometimes we hunt
for that small face,
ragged sleeve above
a chapped hand.
We search beneath
decayed porches, through
yards full of dry weeds
and rusted cans.
The blown years blanket
our steps, leaving
only here and there
a dull gleam like spent
cartridges beneath
another Autumn’s leaves.
—B. R. Strahan
YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE
Where the Church’s Immigration Rhetoric Fails
Catholic discussions of immigration frequently omit salient facts, most prominently the legal status of the “migrant.” I…
Illinois Chooses Death
At 2:55 a.m. on the morning of Halloween, the Illinois Senate cast a final vote on a…
Western Civilization and Augustine (ft. Chad Pecknold)
In the latest installment of the ongoing interview series with contributing editor Mark Bauerlein, Chad Pecknold joins…
