by Richard Grahn
Evanston, Illinois, USA
fields of cotton . . .
we sing “Amazing Grace”
with the larks
Pine shadows rest on the flowering dogwood. Steadfast, we’ve marched to this place. The Southern Cross and Old Glory wave—colors of this April day. Soon the sky will turn to smoke and spider lilies will weep. Rows of soldiers stand in the oaks as we kneel near the Poison Spring. A cloud obscures the sun and I hear the battle cry. The air swells thick with blood. Recalling their chains, I pull the trigger.
wasps
in the beehive—
family feud
Once, twice, they charge, then scurry back to their holes. Hurrah! The eagle soars.
But songs of the master’s whip haunt this battlefield. As ghostly boots breach lines in the sand, I lay my weapons at my feet and raise my hands toward Heaven. I came today to stand, but he can’t bear to see me rise. Pummeled to the earth, I crawl into my past. Above me looms the victor, proud as rough-hewn stone. He sees only my skin, dark as his coal-black eyes. Sharp enough to pierce my heart, his blade too blunt to scar my soul. I gaze at him standing over me—a bolt of lightning ready to strike. The wind caresses my hair. My final breath escapes into the breeze.
All across the field, pollen spills from blossoms.
beyond Jordan
so far from my bones—
milk and honey