Sticks and Stones

His words fly past,
sting my cheeks, 
bite into the hot sand
behind me and
I think of days before valentines 
hardened Into bullets.

My dead mother whispers
consolations into my ear.

But, mother, can't you see?
I stand in the Valley
of the Shadow of Death,
yet no rod or staff appear
to protect me..

Pris Campbell

Graphic: from photo archives

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