The Lingering Wound • poems by Simon Anton Niño Diego Baena

Aftermath

This town will remain sullen, with their pain, their domesticity lingering the entire year into winter. Outside, a few are tending the harvest, stoking the fire; no Wendy, no Peter, (maybe they are on another adventure somewhere far from the plague) just abandoned bicycles and empty pubs and cats meowing the day away in the uncut grass; the scarecrow, however, stays, stalking those hungry little beaks. And in their trimmed suit, the dead, you never knew.