On Stolen Land
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A poem — sort of
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When they take a breath,
It’s on stolen land.
When I try to breathe,
I can barely fill my lungs.
And when I do,
I choke on flumes.
-
Whatever they do, it’s on stolen land.
Whatever we do, it’s on stolen time.
My aunt got married before the first bomb dropped.
The first bomb of the day, I mean,
For she was not alive when this began.
She shall not be alive when this stops either because she is dead.
-
I loathe fireworks but hate bombs more.
My aunt and her husband are both dead and look the same. They died on their wedding day.
At least they followed each other into death. But what kind of sick romance is this?
They both are beaten to a bloody pulp, I can’t really tell them apart.
Their clothes help a little.
They were once white, they are now bleeding crimson.
