In a barren field a warbled lullaby—

sung from the black lungs of some mother’s ghost. 

Curling like spoiled milk, clawing through crooked teeth. 

I gazed into the silent trees—a choir of wasps

caught in cupped palms. Fanged barks

of rabid dogs, paws cradling rusted traps.

Their desperate howls at the moon,

who won’t turn around.