Comments about Traci Brimhall
Prelude to a Revolution
We go to prison windows and pass cigarettes, tangerines
and iodine through the bars. Anything we think
could heal a man. Assassins kiss our fingers.
Mercenaries sing us songs about unbroken light
as we mend their shirts. The bilingual murderers recite
lamentations in one tongue, and in another, young myths.
We fold and unfold our shawls, and the men squint
into the sunlight, dumb with hope. Some days they confuse
the walls of their cage with their skin. Some days,
the sky. They see their deaths in the sweat darkening
our dresses. To sweeten the...