issue 6
// poetry
Alongside Everything
by Camille Lebel
In what passes for prayer these days mothers kneel in rubble, gasping as
I breathe in, slow and deliberate thick, brown shrouds steal time with each breath.
My children run down the wooded path children run down shattered streets, screaming
well-worn boots sucked into soft mud, sandals slip on broken glass and bone
pulled free again with satisfying squelch shrapnel carves bodies into sharp-edged memory.
At lake’s edge, we find a nest, Families hide under desks as the sky falls,
an oval bowl scooped from the ground. leaving craters in lifelines. Uniformed men
Adorned with grass and downy feathers, raid factories, restaurants, schools – convinced
it awaits tenants. A half million neighbors there isn’t enough for everyone. Billionaires
erupt from mountainous ant hills nearby, fling themselves into the cosmos
pouring from scars left by a probing stick while the planet begs mercy.
Pink light stretches through clouds a boy sifts through trash in the dying light
as we feed chickens, searching for eggs gathering glass bottles, metal cans, shoes,
fragile, perfect treasures bricks for building his future.
about the author // Camille Lebel
| Camille Lebel, mother to seven, lives outside of Memphis. She’s a Pushcart-nominated poet published in Literary Mama, Rogue Agent, Sledgehammer Lit, Last Leaves, Writer’s Resist and more. She enjoys traveling, gardening, crafting, and making people uncomfortable. You can find her on Insta @clebelwords writing about religious deconstruction, parenting, child loss, and similar uplifting topics. |
Instagram: @clebelwords
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