She saw it in her sleep,
how they were tore him from the gut and unmasked his skull with claws that grew itself from anger and cleaved at souls it did not recognize
His blood, thick with legends, rich as moist earth, refused to drip away from his flesh and stopped at the edge of his wounds
His body burned burgundy as she stood there, the seven oceans foaming from her eyes,
The last of his kiss flaking away from her nape, her heart drowning in the cage of her hollow chest
Was there nothing she could do from that end? Probably
In another tragedy, the poet still sits motionless
except for the eyes that dart from the keyboard to the screen, like a lover accused of infidelity, guilty of losing love
Like a crook hiding something, like a sinner who couldn’t look up.
A witness moved but not moving, unacceptably still.
No euphemism is offered here, only
another thought for the fallen
for the ones whose land is pulled away from their feet
for the generation of legends forgotten
for our people’s grave: a history we aimlessly repeat