This Land of Mine

Three: your faiths are machine gunning

me down as we spill

in clouds of dried ink that mutter

find you, find me in this bubbling

a thing of yours, a thing of mine --

bridge the maw in the lilt of my and your

-- entering from stage left.

Two: we don’t speak in the yawn of

the firecrackers that speak of so much

not me, so far away from these patches

grinning sharp, coughing up miracle

pushing against a round belly, leaving

us calamity to gawk at, scrape raw

like I gave you the right.

One: grayness, stinging of

you and me, us and them, trembling

bright and clawing soft amongst our cage

they find used up, panting things

smother me and you in red and blue acrylic

propped up with fire pokers and tell me

welcome to you and them.