The Killing Season
The killing season
is upon us again -
our sons gone underground,
our trees become weapons
and the last bloom
of our youth
laid bare by carrion.
In town the men
all ask for cigarettes -
the nicotine on their breath
stalking new prey
as it mingles in the streets
and tries to look
indifferent.
The women wear handkerchiefs
like bandages
wrapping their heads;
and from the buildings
stream white flags
and sheets,
warning the children
there are vacancies
below the surface.
Our houses
do not recognize us -
we leave the doors open
while the windows look
disinterested
and the gardens starve.
But we shall collect wounds
this harvest -
roots trapped in soil,
dry husks in crates
and barrels by the score
to haul to market,
the slender barter
of our dreams
a final afterthought
treading on our tongues.
