Neal Beaver, from Jacksonville, Florida, is an English major at the University of North Florida. He's had poems published in the United States and Germany, including in the Fall 2008 issue of deadpaper.

(rue du chapitre, wissembourg, france)

the clattering steps of that little girl's church shoes
are the spent shells from the rifle of her childhood.

but they burrow deep inside me, dismantle me; I, weeping and sobbing
on strange stairs until an old woman offers to sell me french bread.
I dig in my pocket for a coin but find only scattered memories
like dirt kicked up in despair.

the church bells are ringing, the girl shouts "maman! maman!"
the church bells are ringing.

all I ever learned from those steps and bells stripped down
is how to grow flowers by planting spent rifle shells
and how to throw my kids down the stairs at night:
in other words, to kick up dirt in despair.

before I reach the road and hear the clattering, melodic steps
of that little french girl's church shoes,
kicking up rifle shells that come back down, clang against the road
like rain, but sound more like "hallelujah, hallelujah."

the church bells are ringing, the girl shouts "maman! maman!"
the church bells are ringing.