another cop funeral, a big one,
today, and all the boots spit-polished,
a heel on her heart, still, she
will heal herself with music and
the magic of her fingertips drawing
roses up from the dead earth,
this sere plain, overrun by the
jackal, other heavyheaded animals
of prey, their eyes glinting back at
her in the dark, the November dark
of bone-fires sparking up as
she exhales a breath
kindling her own light
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