We are a peaceful garden people
under an eggshell moon – ancestral sins
mostly scraped from our skin.
Our terrible fathers
buried in shadow – their crimes
covered in salt.
We do not fault
they carved their pride with iron
bars into stone.
A child in the sand of the garden waits
for a rose drop of dew
to free his sad lips from an innocent bondage.
Recall: towers of our history
in an unclean corner of our land.
But these relics of our devotion
must someday yield to rubble
and we’ll have a dance
of blood red bursts – of spangled verse and song
when judgment drops the final grave
over our ravings.
This piece first appeared in Off The Coast, Summer 2013.