Issue 7

Poetry

Giavanna Munafo

A Bin Laden On Every Street Corner


A pillow can be a weapon. 
So, too, can a twig, especially, 
perhaps, a pine twig, whittled 
clean and to a point. A trail 
leads us to the scene: bare foot 
inked as if stamped on purpose 
across a kitchen floor. Outside, 
a tractor idles. If you lose 
your way, the trail burned into 
memory will bring you back. 
Does the hound take refuge from us? 
What do we know? How to close 
the door, shake out the rug, cower 
when called. Now that one dead man 
lies down inside us, aren’t we all 
armed and dangerous?