The Art of War

sometimes they’d drag in God
this fountain that cross what year the
Lord came down
for who would admit
they’d been praying to the wrong one
for the first half
of their lives?

so they scurry like
blind mice into shells and
rocks and steel and soak
them like cherry wine

when all bullets were left in
splintered flesh and
the milked earth
they would melt church bells
to make cannons
and the tolls would no
longer be
heard at noon.

Yan Shu lives in Beijing and has attended several international schools, where she developed a love for English poetry.

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