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the rally

julianna mccarthy

Now the speaker is showing slides
of burned babies. I try to stand, try
to breathe, strangled by evidence.
Truth blocks the aisle, the geography
of the abyss never more apparent.
For every roadside, a bomb; for every
tower, a plane. Wild boars mate
in the foxholes, take names. Guards
outnumber the guarded. A boy with
a sidewall haircut stops me, asks
if I found a pair of glasses near my chair.
I found the fire at my back and the water
rising, all tunnels leading from dark
to darker. Run. Glasses won't help you.