Dirt and hunger. Foreheads burnt, no, branded by heat. Backpacks. Paper cups. Bundles that are everything we own. Beneath the gargoyles, our babies sleep.
We used to have houses. Once we had windows. Now we live at the edge of the world where sometimes at night the Shade lifts his blade. Still, we must rest. We must sleep. We turn away, tucking ourselves into our skin, ignoring the feet that pass.
And no one stops. No one says these stones are not pillows. What prophecy hides in the blur of our breathing? Something is here. And something is coming.
Copyright 2015 Deborah Bogen
[Author’s note: This is one of two prose poems that were recently hung on the wall in an Art Show (Chroniques) in Paris. The show pairs painters and writers. They asked us to give them something on “what people would rather not think about.”]