October: Laramie, Wyoming

by Lauren Fuhrmann

fire burns up its own name when chewing on a human skin
the meaning of rope unravels binding boy to fence post
pistol whippings & the skull is fractured, brain stem crushed
they take his shoes
18 hours later he is mistaken for a scarecrow
face enshrouded in dried and drying blood
clean only in streaks where tears licked away at the red
his father wears a bulletproof vest at the funeral service
signs: fags go to hell
shielded by swelling white wigs, white robes of angels,
draped from aching arms spread wider
candlelight vigils: how many tiny flames in darkness

this fire: remembering how a boy goes quiet


Lauren Fuhrmann has had her poetry published in PoemsMemoirsStories Magazine and in the River Bluff Review. She is currently teaching English at Bladen Community College in North Carolina. One day she hopes to live in an underground house and have a garden filled with sunflowers.