Only memory is her rabbit farm, her
brother and father waving Coors Lite
through the chain-link, glistening bullets—
ready to crawl, we were, among the devil's
claws in order to find peace, our bodies
next to the fastest beating heart I'd heard—
was it hers, or—then boots, speckled blood.
Brooke Vertin, Prairie Self (intaglio, drypoint)