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S a r a h N i c h o l s
After Henri Rousseau’s War (Cavalcade of Death)
I had always dreamt of a horse, so
tonight I rode out on a beast of smoke, and
I can still taste the heavy metal of blood.
Not copper. Iron. The horse-grime
eased into my clothes.
Their rigor was like Antietam.
Pale against the obsidian cloud.
Allie Marini Batts
Larry D. Thomas
Pat M. Kuras
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