the hover project.
a common year in poem.prose.and image.
March Sixteenth
A day of kidnappings. To date most of them have ended in murder, but in the future who knows. Some days mountains are passed like loaves of bread through concertina wire. No one would dare speak of these days, afraid of having their heads forced into bags, being thrown into what feels like the backseats of cars choked with dust. Nerve gas plumes the sky, just as the last slaves are set free. See how far you get, they say. When the bags are removed, they must help to count & bury the dead. They learn as we all learn: by feel, blindfolded, error & trail. Day after day of massacres & they say this will be the last time every time it happens. Today they are body snatchers, saboteurs. In the future who knows, but today they take responsibility for exploding rockets before lift-off. They will deny having prior knowledge of what happened today, of the dust hidden in the teeth of the dead & free.
by Ryan Collins