by Steven Gulvezan
When does the clock stop?
The angry mob storms the palace
Screaming, “Bread!”
The soldiers level their guns and fire
And much blood is spilled…
I see my true love’s fingernail polish
Red upon her nails—
Her delicate white hand reaching up to me…
She wishes me to save her
But I cannot…
Though she is far removed from famine
She is dying
Of another kind of hunger
Alone, though I sit by her side
Aching with desire
To purchase
A loaf of her bread
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment