by Paul Stevens
Blind windows glare unlight
reflected from their murdered god,
their palace tower looms, erect
pale concrete with its dome of steel
teeth. And from its gape a burp
of white phosphorus eructates, to hover
over the bound land, over our occupied
mother: where I may step only the path
which they have signed and arrowed; not
wander to her spirit-haunted folds;
may not embrace her, whom their mines
strip, whom their power-lines strap down.
White phosphorus honeycombs my head,
white-ants eat my song-cycle, shred my tongue.
Paul Stevens was born in England but lives in Australia. He has an Honours degree in English and teaches Literature. He has published poems in print and pixel, most recently or imminently in Shakespeare's Monkey Revue, The Literary Bohemian, Soundzine, Mannequin Envy, qarrtsiluni, The Barefoot Muse, London Poetry Review, Abyss and Apex and Umbrella. He edits The Chimaera and The Shit Creek Review.
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