The Day of the Massacre

by | May 7, 2016 | Poetry | 0 comments

Walking like the wind
I knew he could never
be mine; I’d hold him tight
to my chest like a peanut shell—
the world had to break
to take it out, and I
to remain on an empty plate
with all my kernel-less fruits
thrown back at me.

I’d picture him so handsome in a suit
walking down the aisle, and my eyes full
cascading all the memories;
in this two-minute walk,
I could summarize his life,
and this wife taking him
away from me, I’d hope
she could also see
what I’ve always seen in him
a prince shining like a dream.

One year or two would pass,
I would anxiously wait out my grief—
like a blade of grass
with no hand to weed out,
I’d have no chance to grow
but older in life
and younger in jealousy—
each pound of flesh in him
belongs to me;
I would not let her devour
my baby boy, but I‘d wait
to see the gracious fate
bringing back to me a piece
from him and more
they grow and grow
like a tree so tall would flourish—
I couldn’t wait long enough though
to see it bear fruit,
I’d be too old and deaf and mute
but happy to the core
of my fragile shaking bones.

They returned him to me
today or yesterday or the year before—
the wound is still oozing,
the pain is still near—
in a coffin, they said I should not
open and see what he looked like,
dead in the service of his country—
what service, what country?
he belongs right here
he is a living part in me—
Are you telling me I’m dead?
I can hear myself—
the giggles, the laughs,
the first word, but never the last,
the feet forming like wings
the first steps racing the winds—
What are you telling me?
Has my womb been for rent?
No longer needed now,
ready to be sold as rented, for free.

I don’t care about your gods,
nor do I care about your country—
I’m alive, but dead, and then alas, alive
with every single memory.
Take your martyrdom to hell,
and bring my son back to me…
bring my son back to me…


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