Black and white

an officer is given the task
to point his rifle
into the back
of a mother
barefoot
in rags
by the side of a gulch
who cradles in her
enveloping arms
her son, her daughter
her child
the tiny legs hanging
the head and heart
tucked back into the womb
the mother a mother again
at birth
ready to explode
and grant the
barren earth
two flowers to mark the spot
where ruthless in tall boots
obscured by rifle scope
a man washed out by
the starch of a uniform
heeds the orders
with controlled exact
measure
a puppet on strings
who pulls at them?
the strings, the trigger
who cuts them free?
if a mother nestling her child
has no power to ease
an officer’s grip
it must be up to me

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

*

You may use these HTML tags and attributes: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <strike> <strong>