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The moment 

before a bomb

explodes belongs 

to the market

hagglers, the ooo 

of pigeons

the tenderness

of shoplifters

the great rushing

silence of passing 

cars, the worn

place on one 

woman’s heel

and how she

ignores it, belongs

to their collective 

ignorance of how

the bomb will

dismantle not only

people, pigeons,

walked dogs,

but the space

they inhabit, will

slam the air apart

to a void 

punctured by feathers,

a young girl’s 


the dead listening

to the difference 

between the silence 

before and the silence


Posted 09/05/14
This piece was originally published in June, 2013 as part of Tupelo Press's 30/30 Project.
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