Elvira Finnigan: salt watch
We float
We rise on soft rose petals
Ascending,
Watching as our shadows
Fall
Onto the surface of Mars
Where there are no shadows.
Darkness does not encumber us.
We deliberately measure our moments
Record our heartbeats
And collectively
Breathe.
We reach far beyond our vision.
We listen and watch.
Frogs croon in weedy marshes,
Socks dangle from wooden clothespins,
Strung on thin white lines of cotton.
A playground beckons.
In small encampments
Singing, singing
Voices ringing,
Lifting
Like sweet birds
High into a Cimmerian night
Fires burning,
Embers rising
Crickets chirping.
Toasted marshmallows
Sweet and mushy,
Foamy mouths
Like mad dogs braying at the moon
Elsewhere
Mothers give birth to sons who will die
today.
Kings sit on golden thrones
Emboldened with power.
They dictate orders to pregnant wives frail
as sticks
And mistresses wrapped in crimson cotton
Like wounded soldiers.
Beneath us,
A boy crawls in the dirt
Escaping memories of fire and dung
Of bullets flashing like lightning
Of men with bulging eyes.
A playground beckons.
Lois Schklar, 2006
