Lit Issue 2017 | Poetry

Lula Mae

They are fixing up the neighborhood
without you,
belle of my boulevard, Lula Mae:
I hoped you would come again today
wearing your favorite black shoe.
Oh you, mother to the street corner child
who knew their names, cried for the nameless too.


This War

This war will be
better than the last one,
and quicker too:
A smart, strong war;
It will put the clumsy, old ones to shame.