It was weeping gods shitting knives
into the open mouths of
their lovers.
It was something softer.
Chagall with a machine gun while
the ghettos burned.
Rothko's wrists laid open and
the starlings that poured out.
The sunlight that tasted like ashes,
and then the floods. This woman's
thirteen year old son playing down
by the river, and then vanished, and
when she wept it was for herself.
When the enemy arrived, we helped
them separate the sons from their
mothers. Helped them separate the
husbands from their wives. 8000 men
and boys altogether, and we watched
them being driven off in buses.
We read about their murders in
the paper.
Seemed like there should have been
someone we could blame.
No comments:
Post a Comment