© 2013 Sandra Jean-Pierre

The cards
lay wantonly,

this un-winning
hand
exposed
with all watching.

Taking the
Lion’s share
of the suffering,

owner
succumbing
to the
decorated waxy surfaces’
hidden meanings.

Quickly, quickly!
There is
no time left
for being children!

Deaf eyes mute survival
with
poisoned grief of regret.

Blame,
thick as flies on death,
comes

invited by guilt,
fermenting like
unclaimed bodies in the sun,

spoon fed
to those
who
also suffer,
who
also mourn,
who
know
better enough
than to swallow
and yet
break
under
sweat of brows
beating them into allegiance.

These arms
are washed to the
shoulders in blood,
where
mercy and kinsmen
no longer abide,

where sorrow and grief
coincide,
where
torment and guilt
collide
and leave
bitter tongues
for the daughters and the sons
of long dead ancestors.

Come, Little Ones!
Quickly!
there is no time left
for being children!

Fearful
weeping
still born dreams

as wolves-in-the-raising
pace
feverishly
with cackles
incubating
in their craw,

pay
you no mind,
give
them no
heed,

it is the Sun
that
rises
which warms the womb
for child-bearing
once again.

Gather your
dreams my Dear Ones,
gather your things,

there is no
time left
for being children.