We spread our blanket on uneven
ground, bodies embracing in descent,
They lay on the boxcar floor,
fingers twisted, clutching slats.
transfixed by the spell of evening,
limbs entwined, interlaced,
Barbed wire pressed punctured palms
faces creased as old photographs.
We stretched in dawn’s light,
poured coffee out of cups,
and left as it merged with the dust.
bones upheave turf and loam
fingers grasping, sheathed in soil.
Copyright © 2003 Gary Brocks
180828F
At the time of writing, the war in former Yugoslavia was occurring. Pictures of ethnic extermination camps, barbed write, mass graves, Happeing again. Happening despite the awareness and vows after the holocaust, that such things must never be allowed to happen again. An awareness that had grown stale. Do the horrors of history, even in our ignorance or innocence, ultimately make even the smallest of our acts, some how complicit?
