That dusk at Dún an Óir we slaughtered even
the pregnant, whimpering women methodically
while a bloodstained sun drowned in the ocean.
Each fetus struggled in the belly
of each slain mother as desperately
as a lobster dropped in a boiling pot.
Had shed blood been ink, I could still be
quilling The Faerie Queene, but I did not
allow a drop to blot a mere sonnet
that you, trapped in complicity, can never
quite break free of. Admit it, hypocrite!
In your time few are not guilty of slaughter.
Even the page you’ll pen this upon is of pine
that Amazonians were shot for. I could go on.
To each half blood, each quarter strain—so long as you yearn for the broken
ploughshare, you will be provided a spade honed to razor in its place.
When every acre of your allotment has been leased or sold, you will turn it
on yourself. From that date begins our real and permanent progress.
Coda’s systemic sameness & design
monsoon shovels clay onto hand
pushes up arm, pericardial shift dams
its build you prostrate in an office chair
Man, not the Zest
Man, and certainly not
the My Drafty House Is Warmed Badly
by Kerosene Heaters Man
dated and she would hold
him long in those last moments
before allowing him to walk out
her door, meander through snowy
Alan collects baseball cards and comic books
Hates condos and townhouses
Though he lives in one.
Was a trader for nineteen and one-half years
Then fired when the market melted.
scold their kids with unfulfilled warnings
the folks behind the counter look at us
holding their half empty cups of coffee
We acknowledge the generosity of the Tohono O'odham
in granting this land on which we learn, teach, celebrate
accomplishments, and sometimes mourn losses.