Thursday, November 21, 2013

Return To Sender

for Ward Churchill 

Frozen in abject terror
Flowing through 

Imbedded roots with
Skin curling blackened 

Away revealing red raw 
Ruin where once was 
A mask and never a face
Feel the wind for
The very first time
Then season the silence

With a sigh and cut
Out your own tongue
Hand it to
the head of state
On a white napkin
Upon a china plate
Bow halfway with 

Feigned good grace
This has explained 

Such gifts as a voice 
Are a waste

No comments:

Post a Comment