Meg Cowen, while something somewhere is burned from the feet up (oil and pastel over black-and-white photograph)
The boy bled by the curb lay slept
his flipped palms catching rain
The boy bled by the man fell flinched
his hands raised spelling mercy
Afterward we gave the boy
and his name to the umber
we gave each other stories
and permission to forget
The boy bled by the earth gave himself
to the ground like a promise
curled into his own leaving
like a jealous hand
Then one of us said some thing about justice
Another said: I saw the castle
where I met the king
I touched the iron wheel
he keeps for a heart
tell me again how justice
dwells first in the heart
tell me again why the boy
hit the ground heart first