We Are But Flickers Here

Oh, but they want to

break the bank with us

all.  I just feel it more

 

because of the female

assets the Patriarchy deems

beautiful.  You know as well

 

as I do that I am really not

a pretty girl that is not what

I do.  Give me your dirty, your

 

discarded, whether it is

in the form of a pair of hand-me-down

jeans that would be my size if I were not

 

so malnourished, or the emaciated 10 year-old

refugee girl from the Congo.  It is all the same

to those with the Money to make things

 

different.  I’m just as important as the dead

Syrian boy whose face was covered by the powder

blue pom-pom hat his mother made

 

for him with loving hands, before

she was snuffed out by something

that looked like a child’s toy.  We are all

 

the same in death, and Love is the only thing

which will save at least

the memory of what

could have fit if

 

circumstances were different.  Hope

 

can make you think

that thing flying overhead

is just one of your son’s toys.

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2 Comments

  1. Another brilliantly written poem…very powerful!


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