Shelves of bleached-white and rusty-brown stained skulls,
arm and thigh bones,
behind the glares of the glass-
enclosed cabinets, drop
my heart off its rhythm. My hands agitate,
fingers wobble, hair rising-
to the souls of the innocent.
Empty why – why’s sneak out
under each breath. What sins
to cause a race to cleanse its own?
Genocide. My inside shrieks –
memories flood my vision, pains reawaken
from the blows of many years ago.
Those knocked-out breaths. The known pains
dulled up by repeated whips
in the same place. Did you resist,
raising your arms to save your head,
your eyes, your ribs, your kidneys, and your stomach?
Did you beg mercy
of hearts which knew no pity?
Which one is the bone
of your head? your arms? Which piles
I should pick through? The skull pile?
The leg pile.
The arm pile.
Every part of you lies
scattered. I beat my brain
to seek peace of life.
When it’s too much, I weep
for them, for they’re born
without compassion. For men
still carry no qualms for clubbing their own
mothers and fathers. What world we’d lived in
when babies were beaten
against tree trunks. Every life is now but shattered,
no way of making amends.
April, again and again, the souls sit
wondering when they will be home. Too long,
has but dissolved
O innocent trees
are made to bear
and wear the blood
of our innocence.
O roots. O grass still soaks
with our blood.
and further encounter.
For what purpose?