By Jared Thompson
Let men bake bread – oven-crusted, olive-infused, garlic bread
And women purge ghosts from underneath the stairs.
Let children play from any way they can, kneading nightmarish
boredom into a thing that rises.
Open the windows. Let stillness engulf
What we cannot see but know is there!
Grab whoever’s nearest – even yourself, especially yourself
For a dance under the Super-moon – seen from Beijing, Istanbul
And your backyard.
Laugh. Laugh till your tonsils hurt and your ribs embrace.
Gather. Gather what is here to build a place over there.
Nalubaale Review Literary Magazine 