The Stabbing

Peace Poet Antony Owen

woman in black long sleeved cardigan Photo by on

“He was a difficult birth but his death, the nature of it kills me each day, over and over”


Over possessed houses where chairs lay in ghost sheets

a platoon of geese flew in a broken V

there is beauty in the Badlands,

there is an outline of John

stab-red and rain pink.

Over council-grey favela’s a helicopter looks for three boys

they are found in the glue woods hiding in infa-reds.

There is an outline of John’s murderers

all of them are zombies and zombies

do not run they are dead and alive.

Back to John, last night he watched night make the reservoir grey –

a man made this he thought, but not the sun, not the bloody sky.

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