Quarterly reports

from a plateau of willows

reveal the breadth

of wilting flowers,

lilies & peonies

mere yellowing outlines of figures

carefully painting a triptych

adapted for everyone

who has become a human shield

posing with sugar

& surrendering to the violence

of their dreams to see—

do they writhe sideways

in pain?

Are their bodies covered

in chain?

Are there any songs

left to be sang?

How quickly they grow silent

in the little league baseball games

of their hearts,

like an eruption of sorrow

from a balcony

many stories above the city

waiting in vain

for some bird of prey

to carry them away

to someplace bright

where their children can run free

without fear of any blight

of teachers pinning them to linoleum

to twist their arms behind their backs

until they hurt so bad—

every time we see a pear

we must now recall

those years pressed into a wall

staring into an eclipse

of the harshest of enmities

with nothing to protect our eyes at all

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