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by Shirley Lee
"Our children read, are forged by, works of
a foreign heritage. You must
not forget: Imperial men released their birds
in America, so they might
cynically pollute the land."
This is your heroic poem. As birds are not cynical, I do not care
yet I am laden with your blood; our blood
overflows into my spit, it may run warm in the act
of sacrifice, or perhaps in an act of
civil war
as there is no Augustus for us - we are the victims of Rome. So
I burn with the rage of Achilles
I am ablaze like the towers of Troy I am raped, or made to love
or made to speak like you, to feel like you
or be slain at the altar, forgotten. Our rivers are awash with blood, dirt and bodies.
It cannot be argued otherwise.
Look at the stain in our soil of her blood, as she aimed
her gun at the emperor -
slain at the altar!
I would exhume her but for her ashes scattered. For this:
I burn with the rage of Achilles
I am ablaze like the towers of Troy I am raped, or made to love
the murderer, the saviour.
There is no Augustus for us
to cleanse this civil fury - I am caught between the two of you.
Can you not see how our
rivers are awash with
bodies? Look at the stain of her blood -
the stain that blood leaves
in water.
I dare not drink from it. Instead, for our blood, a poem:
I release the birds of Rome
in Korea, that they may
cynically pollute the land. |