poem: WreathsA Chapter by Marie Anzalonefor someone I lostWreaths for VY
How dare you dictate, to me, the way I should feel about those kids fighting over there for your political moves? Just because it is far easier to rally around anger and a call to vengeance; than facts, and temperance- does not make it right. Damn it, I want him back- the man you took from me and returned a raging boy with a fascination for arsenals and a love of the bottle; after his hands were painted with the blood, of his best friend who had the audacity to be in the wrong place at the wrong blasted time. For I know what it takes to relinquish a loved one to those burning endless sands and alien landscapes where shadows become wraiths hunting with the intent to lay wreaths upon the ground for our kids. You do not own the bald eagle and even your Jesus, I am sorry to say, never endorsed the flag of any nation. Nice try. Patriotism is such a dirty fighting word- perfect for cornering a thoughtful enemy into the box with a trapdoor through which our morality fell and was hanged by the neck until dead. Give me back my man, and give his mother back her son; then go and tour a ragged nation where war’s fist smashed with heavy handed brutality for decades, and ask yourself- how great must the damn prize be to ask anyone to give this much- their daughters and sons and dreams; and landscapes ruint beyond recognition, in the pitiless gaze of the beast marching into the deserts past Bethlehem, in the place where the ribbons on wreaths flutter lightly in the breeze- almost imperceptible in your blood lust. It had better be worth your bloody asking price. Because we’ll endorse cash payments for technology to kill but we won’t teach those kids how to cope with the horror they must live with when they return to a land that has forgotten what it means to look death, especially pointless in the face and watch it bleed out. And I tell you it is easier to drop a bomb than to dig 100 wells and educate a nation. So go ahead and tell me I am unpatriotic but first, give me back the man you took from me and tell me again, slowly so even I understand; why your goals trumped his sanity and the gentle heart he had to give to this world if only he could remember how to use it, and stop waking in the dark to the nightmares of landscapes slightly less real than your 10th Circle. I’ll take my eagle back, thank you, at least I know what they need to survive. © 2013 Marie AnzaloneAuthor's Note
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Added on December 29, 2009Last Updated on May 26, 2013 AuthorMarie AnzaloneXecaracoj, Quetzaltenango, GuatemalaAboutBilingual (English and Spanish) poet, essayist, novelist, grant writer, editor, and technical writer working in Central America. "A poet's work is to name the unnameable, to point at frauds, to ta.. more..Writing
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