Mothers of the Disappeared

A mother can almost see the firing squad
uncock itself, the blacksmith striking until the sword
deforms and the fields have a plow again.

Her children are deer who have taken corn
from a trembling hand, then flashed across the yard.

If they returned on a rainy night, like bits of a comet
gone for centuries, she would ask no questions,
gathering the fragments from far beyond the orbit of Pluto.

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