by GR Collins

The father and son enter and everything
is ruined. Paint starts peeling from the walls

cracks appear in the glass, the circus
gate is breached and the city falls.

The father and son do not stare at the damage
and think my God we did this as they ride

their bone carriage through the crowds.
Instead, they think see how they love us

as they smile and wave, as they flay
all the unscarred arms and bless

each tender head with a cudgel.
Soon, they have staked their claim

and wrapped each face in foil to show
their movies on. But in the end they grow bored.

Nothing is left for them to take. No fields
remain unscorched. Then one day they are gone.

Crows gather in the willowshade of their passing.
The holy ghost hides its shadow in the marsh.

GR Collins is a writer from Milwaukee who has held jobs as brick mason, farmhand, middle school teacher, prep cook, and currently works in biotech. His fiction and poetry have appeared in Whitefish Review, Waterstone Review, Red Flag, Hive Avenue, Red Rock Review, Flint Hills, and others. He lives with his family in the heart of dairy country, where there's always great cheese.