Malala

Malala
Lyn Lifshin
New from Poetic Matrix Press
Available on our website

ON THAT DAY

the teenagers
chattered with their
teachers as the school
bus rattled along the
country road. They
just finished a term
paper and broke out
singing a Pashton
song. That music must
have been the last
thing Malala heard,
one of the last she
remembers.
Two men flagged down
the bus, boarded,
screamed. Which one
is Malala? Silence.
The rust leaves all
that moved in the
breeze. The girls,
terrified, frozen. Only
their eyes moved to
Malala.
That one the gun
man said. Fired two
shots. Then he fled.
The Teacher said
Drive
to the local hospital,
stared in horror at
Malala’s body, bleeding
and bleeding, unconscious
in her friend’s lap.

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