Poetry

Scouring, the unmarked
silences―
for the invisible executions.
 
My name was
on top, for exclusion
from the list.
 
Now you can read the
applicant's account
under the sun's fault.
 
A thrill of terror
runs through the buds.
A celebration will stop the words.
 
There was no other
way, to know the pink of
a dying rose.