Walking Through Chicory

by Christopher T. George
FreeWrights Peer Review
Third Place, September 2012
Judged by Troy Jollimore


I see porches trimmed in red, white, and blue:
bunting, new or faded flags, plastic Uncle Sams,
a war memorial with a small laurel wreath,
mauve echinacea growing round, for memory.

My doctor worries about his homeland,
an aged aunt in Aleppo, windows blown,
how she will receive her medications,
that each rifle bullet will find its target.

I hike home in hundred degrees heat,
walk through chicory, a field all in blue,
see cicadas dead on their backs,
sparkling spent shell casings.


Sometimes a single image can make a poem. The final image of the cicadas “dead on their backs, sparkling spent shell casings” is strong, disturbing, and memorable. ---Troy Jollimore

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