political

wrapped in rough fabric in slanted light,
hollow, wire frame pressed tight,
beaded spine resting in the space between,
like a bowl-backed mandolin that no longer plays
the music gone still.
soon silent.

only this is no instrument.
he’s a child.
an empty-bellied, innocent child.
a dying child.
his mother there too, eyes closed...
in prayer?
in defeat?
in suspension of disbelief?
the unreal reality of us closing our eyes
to him,
his frail body,
his fledgling hair,
the delicate loops and whorls of his crown --
a fingerprint of our hands-on, hands-off approach to people
in this war
between
the right ways and wrong ways to occupy land
between
the right ways and wrong ways to worship god
between
the right ones and wrong ones to care about
to support
to feed
to lend aid
to weaponize
to fire bomb
to shoot in the street as they try not
to starve

this is a picture of a mother holding her child
not an instrument
of war
please may the war stop.
not the music of this little boy's heart.

I fish the inky depths,
trawling dark waters for the hard words
to tell the hard stories
tossed like trash by the devil and his damned
overboard, where they want them to sink.
Where he sends truth to die,
sends victims to lie
beneath oil-slickened, oil-sickened waters
where false rainbows plume, false promises bloom
at the greedy hands of powerful men.
So many left capsized to sink in the ruin of his reign.

But I’ll start with The Kids.
All the children of the lesser gods.
All The Kids not made in his image.

The Kids wrapped in girl bodies,
sealed transcripts and semen-stained trails
and tales so no one will see nor will hear.

The Kids wrapped in historical faiths, covered in
shrapnel and terra cotta skin and bones and pleas
our nation refuses to see nor to hear.

The Kids trapped in red tape and undocumented
tugs of war between parents who love them and
a government that relegates with reptilian hate.

The Kids tagged with special needs, basic needs,
clawed back with initiatives meant to
educate and feed the least of these.

The Kids of all needs, colors, creeds
returning to schools with clear backpacks, but no clear
game plans nor gun laws to thrive and stay alive.

Kids. So many Kids.
Discarded. Discounted. Dissociated. Detached.
From our eyes and ears and hearts and minds.

Without a thought.
Without a prayer.
Kids.

postmodernfamilyblog

Multigenerational Mom Muses on Twin Toddlers & Twenty-Something Daughters

Tag

Bowl-Backed, Empty-Bellied Still Life

Today’s Message Brought to You by the Letter K