by Todd Dillard
Up sleeves, into ears,
mouse holes, magpie nests,
around corners, through doors,
up stairs, eaten by shadows,
eaten by toddlers, eaten by dogs
by crows by hogs by vultures,
into boardrooms, into boats,
into cultures, into space,
into bullet holes,
sometimes a whole boy
will just fall into one,
leaving a mountain of air
which we call a country,
its flag a trackless gaze,
its anthem a mother
doing the hard work
of turning a name
into a question.
Todd Dillard's work has appeared or is forthcoming in numerous publications, including: The Boiler Journal, Superstition Review, Electric Literature, Wigleaf, and Best New Poets. He lives in Philadelphia with his wife and daughter and works as a writer for a hospital. Follow him on Twitter @toddedillard.