Forty-five women and children massacred
and still, up the wall twists the morning glory
nobody planted
what I'm looking at, uselessly,
are photos of broken pitchforks and torn-off boots
the long plaits of sobbing women
pushing at soldiers double their size
this is invasion of the third world by the first
check the equipment if you doubt it - the guns
and the viciously banal reflector sunglasses
my hands touch these photos
and jump with static
those hands
holding machineguns
those other hands
hard from grinding corn
I know
there is no use in this, but every reason
to cry over something spilt
I go and get fishing-line and tie it to my roof, pull down lengths
and tie them to the plant stakes of the morning glory
I wind those struggling fronds, desperately growing back on themselves, around
the lines
I wind them like tendrils, like Sheherzade's stories,
untangle them like corkscrewing hair
pointing to the sun
it is not holding a pitchfork or a baby
it is not pushing back a uniform, bristling with an ammunition belt and a clip
it is pulling
something
up
that's fierce to reach the light
that's grown from seeds that nobody planted
but is still a blue
that would put the sky to shame.

_____________

Veronica Traven is a prize-winning Australian writer resident in Mexico; non- profit reprint rights freely granted if full credit is given.

_____________

    home     |     subscribe     |     talk     |     help-about     |     back issues     |     resources