By Caleb Gill
Fifty
years after the massacre,
I’m in my friend’s garage,
attempting to deadlift
the weight of man,
the invasion,
the war.
Contorting
over booths
in bars.
In preparation.
Sitting locked-arms
blocking
the intersection.
A boy on Blanket Hill.
Hurling back smoke grenades.
Waving the black flag.
Pressing flowers
into the barrels of their M1s.
The bell, rung and rung.
Caleb Gill was born in Louisville, Kentucky and attended Kent State University before earning his MFA from Chatham University. His poems have appeared in The Massachusetts Review, Poet Lore, Appalachian Heritage, and elsewhere. He gardens with his wife and dogs in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, where he works for the University of Pittsburgh Press.
