June 27, 2011

It’s pink because the blood is done
but it was there:

‘If you had a daughter they took her.
If you had a house they burnt it down.’

He talks to a lense
straight to camera,
shadows bruised
with peony haze

and faded skyline
washed with sunset,
magenta cloud bank
shot with grey.

Screen after screen
is glittering through my living room,
a rose scarf wrapped,
a terracotta field.

His eyes are pink
as he talks about his daughter.

And black oil
is barely a trickle.

And no one comes

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