They told you shrapnel makes men
celestial, that’s why you joined
the army. In midsummer, when weathervanes
carousel, you pull your silence
taut over our house. Nothing bad
will happen to us now, not with you
standing sentinel at the edge
of our sleep, guarding
against the peacethieves.
In the living room
you and I mummify, waiting
for the rains to pass. Dust settles
on our eyelids, the choleric
mahogany. Should you ever speak,
I’d tie my hair to the hooves
of your voice, I’d have my death by dragging
out what the water wills sunk. I’d ask
if you’ve seen the moles in the garden, the bird
nest under the eaves. I’d ask how many
you captured. How many did you kill?
Selma Asotić is a bilingual poet from Sarajevo. Her poems and essays have appeared or are forthcoming in Michigan Quarterly Review, EuropeNow, and The Well Review. She is currently pursuing an MFA degree at Boston University. Mostly, she would prefer not to have a biography.