When the whine of the sirens
(that otherworldly moaning
glissando) sounds on a day
the clouds turn dark green,
certain people of the town go
outside, kick off their shoes,
and dig their toes in the warm
grass, accompanying the earth’s
call to the scouring wind.

It is only the next day, after the
sirens turn off and the town is
silent, those megaphone-mouth
townspeople—their throats torn and
sore—feel satisfied their voices,
gone spinning and twisting
a hundred miles away, are destroying
someone they’ve never even met.

[Editor’s Note: Publication of this poem was made possible by a gift from Quinn McCulley during our annual Kickstarter.]