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Janet Buck |
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Red Eyes The elocution of torn rags, petty squabbles over land, loaded rifles, tracks of tanks like asteroids gone crazy in this hemisphere brought us to this tired fork -- where buses could be bombs on wheels, where roads lead straight from fence to fence. Pitch, the darkness is pitch, an unrelenting form of tar. Somewhere in Afghanistan a sea of children starves for milk, considers rice and school books the caviar of silk elite. The color of communion wine wasted in stampeding terror. We're all still red around the rim, remembering the choice-less ash, scores of lambs and skeletons that had no proper funeral. To let the bed sore sorrow heal presumes forgetting horror that will never lift. Hartshorn tears and lurid scars spread like restless spirits now. Somewhere near the Pentagon another autumn rolls its mulch. Tawny leaves are clinging to their guarded green. Somewhere in the foggy Bronx, a widow and a widower toss one toothbrush in the trash. |