Songs of Anisha
my life would be better if . . .
But this is not close to the truth:
I had seen legs hands heads
hacked off and the hatchet
buried in quivering torsos
Giddy from watching the mob’s
infectious dance
I waved my axe and joined
the froth.
No, no, not even that smells the truth! . . .
The day bleeds to death
in an open grave, swells
with bloated bodies in the choked mouth of a red river.
I ask the clock: How many minutes before
the next genocide foretold—before
truth-seekers divine my heart?
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