Blue Ridge
Anne Menasché

Every February night the revolution bathed
our living room a cackled blue. I stayed
up to watch the news. The reports lathed
us into shadow, guilty for having strayed
from our angry cradle. Blue Ridge, you stand
beyond my window as the Catskills used to,
quiet as Ireland’s empty fields. Rain sands
you into melting dark, the fog unmoors you
and pulls you into blank heaven. Your earth sings the heifers
through each black, iced puddle so they may
safely walk through their deep measure
of unknowing. Blessed are they, who lay
in the church of the dales and remember not
the earth in which their family is buried,
the pebble on which their words are caught.

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