horses dying under the lash

just enough so he knows he's hungry

and we were promised

we never would be slaves,

but the beautiful neon lights

and pains in our bellies

silenced the validity of that statement.

upon muscle and blood

we endured the tasks

others held beneath themselves

at a flagpole's distance.

wallowing in the muck

and offering the left cheek

after the right was caked in crimson.

insults etched themselves into our skin

and we wore them like masks at a party

for that is who we had become

in the eyes of so many laughing jackals.

a slight transgresstion

a man of higher stature would be afforded,

but the stamp of failure fell upon me

as quickly and deadly as the blade of a guillotine.

a cornhusk doll

void of face or feelings

endlessly played with

until the strings come unbound

and the form is returned

to a pile of stray straw

for mother to sweep out the door,

and the chid's hand

goes to the box for a new one.

 

Reviews

[Charles D. Moorer]

"insults etched themselves into our skin and we wore them like masks at a party" is a very nice line. This poem is evocative on many levels. The title is very intersting. Nice Write!