Conversation with a Refugee. January 2009, Mozambique

Tropical sun shines sharply, forcing faces down The penitent position Of a man newly hung “When the elephants fight It is the grass that suffers.” Refugees slide slowly toward the ragged edge Diaspora into darkness Shoeless journey into air “When the elephants fight It is the grass that suffers.” Dusty human mosaics burn slowly in the sun Fragile forms holding hope Home, when the game is done When the elephants fight It is the grass that suffers.

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Written by

mark-w-meehan

50 / M / Nashua, NH

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