Fields of Flame

Fields of Flame

I’m tattered.

The droops
of my eyes
fold clumsy
over the crease
of my powder
blue mask
like old paper
waiting to die.

I look to the east
and the motors
of history
are ticking again—
humming
brass
coils
flick
with the electricity
of dominance.
“Murder is murder,”
says murder.

What neighbors
are neighbors?

A thousand years
of brother-shed.

And ever since
and ever after
our soils
mineralized
with the heavy iron
of common blood.

Somewhere caught
between the seas
a sack of stolen
potatoes spills out
and no one
has the mettle
to pick them up.

The sky blotted
with a regiment
of bundled flames.

Soon it’ll be time
to plant beetroot
again.

The borschts
we make
are almost as similar
as the tongues we use
to slurp them.

What will we harvest
this year when all we’ve
sown are bombs?