' Edge '
Bent is each crooked straight line.
by James McLain
Looking down at each woman, life is finished.
Even in death, one stands out.
Resting above all the rest.
Her corpse wears the smile of achievement,
illusions have come and gone, it is over.
Dead children reach out,
little hands coiled around cold stone feet.
Breasts filled with sour milk,
vinegar is sipted, each little bud runs empty.
Pulling them back to close to the garden I sit.
And when the weeding it stops,
blooming tonight, sweet magnolias.