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2 Poems by Meg McKeon

Pulled from the throat
of a dying horse,
the cloth to soak
breath of stuck
wheel, landed in the mud.
How decades slip by one
revolution after another.
Tell me, dear sirs,
whose screams
are heard anymore at the beating
of the drums? Give each little
one a stick. Tell them to draw
in the dirt their number
of dead.
Come with me, you who red
in the face at the crisp white
of your hands.
I don’t know what’s
at stake here.
But the people are singing.
The tune is low and sad.
In the woods, you curled
your hand fistwise,
knuckled my shoulder.
In acts of war
we are hoping
to come out
only minorly
How sexy is this going to get?
is a question
I often ask of my t-shirts.
They know.
I’ve stolen all of your
right & woolen socks.
Pick up your glue gun.
There aren’t many buzzards
but they know we’re here.
Meg McKeon is currently pursuing her MFA in poetry at the University of Texas at Austin and serves as an Associate Poetry Editor of Bat City Review. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in LEVELER, smoking glue gun, and Forklift Ohio: A Journal of Poetry, Cooking, and Light Industrial Safety among others.