Sarlat

By Julia Multer

I’m not used to it, the country quiet.
The trees not tall enough, the wind too subtle. 

Subtle wind, my pain, the sound of loneliness. 
The mirror of a tragedy is in the grass. 

The tragedy is in the grass, small dead things 
That never knew the music of a gunshot. 

The music of a gunshot is loud.
Where I’m from, no two songs are alike. 

I like the dirty songs of my city.
Fire escapes and gum stuck to sidewalks. 

I stick to the sidewalks. It’s what I know best. 
I’m taught to question before I accept. 

Before I accept the subtle wind, 
I question the country, too quiet.