by Robert Emmett
wake up
your child
won’t be coming home again
her room still
sweet with fading memories…
the shadow
of an unseen raptor
crosses the sun
you flinch
and crane your neck
to see
what already has passed
there is no preparing
for this
no barrier high enough
to keep out
what is already inside
a face
in the mirror
unrecognizable
a name
on your tongue
unpronounceable
what does that matter
now
a voice on the radio
says the biggest massacre
of innocents
in the country’s history
so many numbers
to breach
what is bred
in the soil
why can’t they listen
seven generations
still grimace
at the thought of
children
whose corpses
lay in crimson snow
on wounded knee
Robert Emmett writes from the still, leafless woods of Michigan.
