Poetry of Love, Resistance, & Solidarity

In daylight, the sky is different, its blue hues
doming over browned and silent fields,

all indigo and premonition.

The sky is nothing more than a mirage:

Still, who doesn’t want to be a confusion
of wings in this burning country? To navigate

from one darkened edge to another, to
map even the most quiet of voices in silver,

exposing each star-spun womb

like a wound to air.

     — Mary Stone Dockery

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