November 9, 2016 Your legs pump like automatons as you wade through wind and gulp the air your walker’s trance blurs the cedars a green line between gray driveways where a mental mote catches and etches the shape of a ghost car transparent at first then the color red a semi-compact, windows soaped in words brewed by devils the sucker-punch of hate slams you into a friend’s history the Nazi boy at school in Hamburg with his straight salute but her arm ached on her war's first day everything after involved fleeing fear engulfs you this quiet neighborhood was never safe you just didn’t see its demons until today Bio: Peggy Turnbull is a poet and retired academic librarian who lives in Wisconsin. She is currently writing a series of poems about her encounters with the divine. Most recently she has been published in Whitmanthology: On Loss and Grief.
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