WHY
By: Carla Laureen Henry

The corridor narrows,
hands graze the walls
cool, sea foam green,
20 layers hiding fingerprints.

You hand walk
corner-to-corner
darkness shields,
reality is blind.
Through a door
you hear a man
play Clair de lune.

You see the flow
of humans,
pounding horns,
screaming,
veins protruding
as you totter over
a bridge rail.

No, you nod, you’re not
surprised –
Bill closed the keyboard,
let his hands slide
along the
cherry wood, found
a rope, hung himself,
quietly
without any fanfare.

REBELLION
By: Carla Laureen Henry

In the florid flush of dawn
boulders scrape the margins
of dissent.
Cassock shadows
slip into deep crevices,
red-tailed hawk swoops,
circles, circles over
jack-rabbit scurrying
through burnt sienna
buckwheat.

Heat claws the valley –
horizon fades into
a choke hold of sludge.
I’ll drive to work
as always,
arriving at the door
of dread.

Today I will not get out
of my car –
turn around,
turn around,
return to the hills and
search for dragon-flies.

ON WATCH
By: Carla Laureen Henry

Stone baby
held high in
villager’s hands. All
cries for milk, all
silenced behind
gutted walls.

A woman’s head
down, others
surround her.
Bottom of blast
the husband,
the baby,
so still under
the weeping
of women.

On watch
moonlight illuminates
this soldier’s body
that soldier’s body,
each believing this
light is wholly
his own.