We are a peaceful garden people
under an eggshell moon – ancestral sins
mostly scraped from our skin.

Our terrible fathers
buried in shadow – their crimes
covered in salt.

We do not fault
they carved their pride with iron
bars into stone.

A child in the sand of the garden waits
for a rose drop of dew
to free his sad lips from an innocent bondage.

Recall: towers of our history
still stand
in an unclean corner of our land. 

But these relics of our devotion
must someday yield to rubble
and we’ll have a dance

of blood red bursts – of spangled verse and song
when judgment drops the final grave
over our ravings.

This piece first appeared in Off The Coast, Summer 2013.