Two Poems
M Sarki

Children of Our Murdered Chickens

The air still turns

in the June of

my tumbling.

A hard fall,

abrupt as my

crumbled bones.

My knee shattered

beyond the discovery

I was not dead.

 Above me the

roof looked down.

Broken, my head

twisted in the

wet sand and

dirt she calls

her flower bed.

Long rides and

surgeries await

me. Feet clear

of the clutch

for the unknown

road ahead.

After Studying Her Buckingham Clock

Half as much

rust on the old

Chevrolet. And

 a finger to boot

if you lube it.

A sign behind

the shadows

looking back.

Cold steel

with raised lettering.

A perfect word

said Duby.

 And more

metal, cluttering

the rack built

in the basement.