The Hill
Danielle Brodzik
At the top of
the hill, the light
from Utopia glistened
from crystal clear windows,
where men stood looking out past
their manicured lawns at the rest of
the crumbling city below. At the bottom,
blood flooded cracks in the sidewalk, bullets
created more bumps in the road, and bodies filled
graves staked with a cross, in memory of the nameless.
At the top, fathers tucked in their daughters with blankets
and stories while back at the bottom tearful mothers laid their
sons to rest beneath flags and prayers. Behind their walls, men
strode along the gold paths of their gardens, planting pennies
in the dirt and plucking dollars off trees, while the beggars
in the mud crawled around on their hands and knees
in attempt to dig up what has already been buried.
For them, there wasn’t any time to wait for the
flowers to bloom. Lying beneath the night
sky, they all wished upon the shooting
stars, that grazed the roofs of those
houses and struck the heads
of those with pockets
full, to be placed
at the very top
of that hill.