Wide little eyes watch from behind the door
fat little fingers grip the wood, until the blood has fled and left them
white with cold.
Chill iron fingers of terror curl around the pounding little hearts and
squeeze
their childhood from them
For the demons enter, breaking down the door;
their guns drawn, blood on their hands, death in their faces.
The blind ones rise, with effort, with confusion
curse the lying promise of the empty bottles, laughing at them from
the ground
and having played themselves to the trap, are pushed helpless to the
door.
and the little eyes burn as they read the little minds their story;
and flood the tiny trembling faces as they shout the silent truth into
the hollow room
that with step after echoing footstep, the beloved ones
the blind and stumbling ones
are herded with the crack of whips over the edge
to a buffalo's death
in the dark.
From the perspective of a Native American child whose father has turned to drink to escape his poverty, unemployment, cultural conflict and racism in a rural locale.