by Logan Chaloupka
We saw them there among the square of emerald-glowing grass. Just pilgrims there to stop and stare, and soon away we’d pass. A glowing star above the blue shone brightly on this spot, A private place for those displaced; a broken, outcast lot. Away’d they turn those to inter for holy reasons why, And never stopped to tilt their heads to hear the mothers cry. Cleansing water flowed forth from a dozen desperate palms, But not enough to drown the dirge of selfish stoic psalms. The pilgrims’ tears had burned away a lifetime’s worth of bones, But even they could not evade the littlest gravestones.
Logan Chaloupka is a poet, musician, and pilgrim of life from Solon, Iowa. He currently teaches high school English in Marion, Iowa, much to the chagrin and delight of his students. Logan enjoys delving into alternate worlds through literature and media, spinning yarns with friends and strangers, and embedding himself in nature when possible (minus tiny-winged things that come in swarms).