A body

You don't know fear until you are Mother.

And you're running. Screaming. With your baby's

burning body. In your scalding arms. Nothing

matters, oh nothing matters, but this life. This life!

A body. Hardly separate from your own.

You ask god for mercy. For mercy. Mercy

mercy, mercymercymercy

No. You don't know fear until you are Man.

And you're fighting a war that kills you thrice.

Once, when you are awake. And twice, when you are

not. To know this torment is to say you too

have heard those cries for humanity. And you

silenced them. With a swift blow. Because you

were God. But a body never quiets

You didn't know fear until you held a weapon. A rifle.

A gun. A grenade. A belief. An agenda. So loaded,

are your fears. You aim, and you shoot. You shoot, then you

aim. You shoot, and you shoot, youshootyoushootshootshoot

until those sacred bodies, hardly separate from your own,

are heavy. Heavy with bullets. Heavy with blood. Heavy with

bile. Heavy with a body so small that will never grow

quiet