21 October 2015

untitled poem VII



What you grant to be powerful,
will win games.
And let's face it,
most of what we give ourselves to now is game.

It may win wars, to the extent we can continue to speak of winning them.

Your power cannot,
will not,
take a heart.

The closest it will come to that is allegiance.

A pledge, to some cloth and a gun,
muttered by the bored or the desperate.

That is not, in the end of things, or in the end of us,
power.

The only kingdom that is eternal
is impossibly defended by the
wooden swords of children,
by the eyed upon sparrow,
stunned, but not dead,
after hitting your windshield,
by the unspoken pleas of a Rana Plaza seamstress
whose fingers are too tired to sew straight.

Its navies are the cheap rubber boats of refugees.
Its armies the ranks of the unemployed standing in formations of resigned bad posture.
Its air force the whispered prayers of mothers of sick children for whom there are no doctors nor medicines.

You will win your games.

That is not the end.













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