james matthew wilsonLet me tell you about a bullet
And a body.

A Sunday Mass
Tolled its loud bells
While we all stood
Near tenements;

And broken glass
Crunched like old shells
Through the neighborhood,
Where a mural presents

What’s come to pass:
Masked men, spent shells,
In a field of blood
And discontents.

Republished with gracious permission of Modern Age.

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Editor’s Note: This is the fourth poem in a collection of six called On the Shoals. The featured image is a photograph of Shankill Graveyard, the site of the old church, as it looked in 1915, courtesy of Wikipedia.

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