What is this virus
that stalks – it hunts, it preys,
then it sells us
an image of coyotes pacing
upon the desert’s floor where
the prickly cactus is gurgling,
and the snake bends to the earth
while footsteps wind beyond
rivers marking a line that
is unremarkable –
an arbitrary thing,
useless to the living,
the migrating seed.
The children live as moons
orbiting every whim,
you do not see the suffering
when you look right through
the ghosts they have become.
Felipe Gomez Alonzo –
his breath is dormant now
and Jakelin Caal has
left this earthly realm
like so many other enfermos
their suffering is reined in
through shortness of breath –
just a moon’s journey the
orbiting rests on whims,
on whims.
In my youth it was the curtain
of iron so harsh and metallic
it seethed of the coldness
a brutal wall carried so
many to their graves.
Now the division is hot
under a desert sun,
I push words
through barricades
up onto the wall, oh the wall,
down, down they go like humpty –
shot to a living hell.
Anne's mediocre poetry 