Wednesday, January 14, 2009

Something to hang from a peace tree

She is holding a child that she has never had. A limb is falling off of the child. A leg. Or an arm. There is a bullet in the child's eye. The bullet is silver. Blood is flowing into the child's mouth. The child is thirsty. The woman lets her drink the blood. Her left breast is blown up. In its place rests a big scar. You can see the heart through cracked ribs. With no breast, the child cannot be breast fed. With no breast she cannot even prostitute herself to find water or milk. The child is thirsty. The woman's heart is broken by the force of the smashed rib cage. The man is out; holding his penis out to the world; pissing on it, pissing it off. He is hoping that if he urinates enough, the earth, the ancestral land will purify it enough to save his child from thirst; or from the despicable sin of sucking on his own blood. Death doesn't come soon enough to the child whose limb is hanging, whose eyes is wounded. Death doesn't come soon enough to the woman whose breast is blown, whose broken rib cage has broken her pink heart. Death doesn't come soon enough to the man whose phallus is not irrigating the earth, is not starting a creek. Death is waiting in a corner to be sought. Death is waiting to be called upon. Death is waiting to be strapped into a belt. Death is not coming, death is to be sought. Death grins menacingly that she is the port to freedom, the port to heaven. Death is water, death is food, death is freedom, death is a belt, death is the last piece of pride, the last bit of dignity left.

The woman's breast is blown. Her wombs is a ball of fire. She is pregnant with pain. And she is holding a child with a falling limb, with a bleeding eye, and with thirsty lips that are getting used to the salty taste of the blood ... blood the only source of life ... blood the only god ... the woman will give birth to pain, the pain too will be thirsty, the pain will not be able to drink from the exploded breast, the pain will grow into a blood thirsty puberty.

The pain will kill the woman because the woman will kill for pain; all mothers will kill for their thirsty children. The death belt is grinning ... the last attire of dignity of a man ... or a woman ...

1 comment:

thepoetryman said...

What beautiful prose, Naj... Stunning.