Settlement by Micah Ling

that turns out flawless. Something about splintered

trees and ruin. The first time you see oil

in water, hunched crops, the collective pool of blood.

Nothing matches that color. These things cannot be argued

against. There’s a storm moving in and it’s the thickest

black that exists—beyond soot and tar and hate;

far beyond grudge. The glint of a mirror keeps stealing

your eye—it’s fixed in the storm but it’s circling about.

Each time you catch a glimpse, it’s yourself

but a much younger version—cute and happy:

overly unaware. See this child-version—

this reality that makes you ache. What in the world

happened to the five senses of home: broken

bread, wine, table, hands, and the faith

that tomorrow will come, and somehow

it will bring bright colors: red and green, black and white.