My brother and I launch balls of fire
away from the duplex,
our bodies shifting
shape as they cut through the gloom.
The house behind us is still. Humid
air beads in our chests
while the clouds churn
with electric heat.
Silhouettes dance across
the den but we are watching
the veins of god stretch.
Down the block, engravings wear
on the tomb of the unknown
soldier. He paces back and forth
between tawny stacks of brick,
stopping every now and then
to squat and squint
before his monument.
The blaze is suffocated and we are
beneath an obscure moon
on the lawn, waiting for deluge.
Lincoln Dunn graduated from the University of Mary Washington in May of 2015. He currently lives and writes in Northern Virginia.